اصل بول
ENترجمہ ابھی دستیاب نہیں۔ اصل بول دکھائے جا رہے ہیں۔
I hear the old sounds, the soundless wailing.
You are a ghost tossing old coins,
The action of shadows, a poverty of spirit.
These bleeding hands we feel
Touch me not.
We would see a sign: a flowering Judas,
The man with heavy eyes dying with a patience,
The wild thyme, dung, soil, and death.
Men and bits of paper
Touch me not.
