O the Sun traversing the sky,
Tell me, why?
Those whom we loved, where are they?
Somewhere in haze...
Night of Love is flown,
Its echo is gone,
Only lonely acacia grows
Amid white rifted stones.
What now? To flee?
To the desert of silence
To greave under the tamarisk tree...
Maybe there, where sands do roll free,
I shall see
The mirage of thee.
