How many mountains I’ll have to cross
To come accross a morning;
How much I’ve to bleed
To touch a rose?
I lie flat on the bed of pathoes
I cast my eyes to far away sky
I’ll listen, at the branches of Hizal tree
Blue bird will whistle on
The mountains never move, sun does not rise
Roses never reach close
Covering myself with the quilt of dreams
I touch my dreams continuously
People decorates their rooms and houses
To live inside his dreams
People are by born
Traders of dreams.
Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman