O white burqa threads,
Did the moon's mother
choose you from the winds, or
did the naked child and his mother, lying shivering on the earth?
Or did the moon shrink from the earth's cold call?
Did one of its bells fall from its body?
Who had fixed on the pod
a ball like snow Or perhaps
that old woman spinning the charkha
taught me the game of fibers
Had come and reunited with his mother
Had given the earth a gift
Snatching the cotton seed from the gods
It's possible only after that
humanity thought
To envelop a delicate flower
Finding warmth in the body
To dress the moon in a cradle
In the deep darkness
To clothe the earth in silver
To embrace the sun as a wick
Then Your fibers scattered in the winds
Raising the status of a shroud
Making your delicate nature so harsh
O friend of the winds
How am I colorless like them all
Now I am emerging from myself
I am obsessed with catching you
So that now you grant me
Your nature whenever I want to become colored
Become light and fly Of his country
Now you give me
Sometimes Like me Seems like!
