Without homeland, peasants we are.
Nothing is said, the taste of love decays.
My culture is faster than the rain
yet I forget the womb of my love.
Tomorrow morning in the country
I will meet her. Nothing changes
meanwhile.
Without homeland, peasants we are.
Nothing is said, the taste of love decays.
My culture is faster than the rain
yet I forget the womb of my love.
Tomorrow morning in the country
I will meet her. Nothing changes
meanwhile.
Really nice.
Thank you, Manas.
You are most welcome 🙂