اصل بول
ENترجمہ ابھی دستیاب نہیں۔ اصل بول دکھائے جا رہے ہیں۔
We stretched our skins over the rims;
Oh, how we beat ourselves to death.
The sound decays, spread too thin to resonate.
If we don't fold the wrinkles show
Each trepid movement, an intrusion onto sacred soil,
Now vacant from a welcome overstayed.
Our refuge fades away.
Burned out in verse,
Does it still carry worth?
How long can it last when each note hurts?
These hands still play but
Who knew that would shake this way?
Will these tired strings still sing if we asked?
And what would they say?
Would they convey fears of echoes in distant halls,
Where "forever" and "together"
Have a meaning all their own?
