They left their names and went on

The faces became like lanterns

They pass by to illuminate some of the sadness of the long nights

Their faces pass through the night of the country

They pass quickly without names

The one who invented the alphabet has no face

And no call letters

The tulip field that grew in the heart's basin became a children's garden

It became the swings of the breeze, which blows whenever spring dreams of calling their names

Those who returned left their stories on train platforms

They returned as they were born

Naked

Whenever I see an abandoned train station, I know they passed through

Some cards scattered on station platforms

Bloomed like lily bulbs

And the perfume rode first class

Because it knows that the poor do not wear perfume

Their palms are the grass of distant fields

Their spurs smell of thyme

And gratitude

With the songs he composes for their rest, the water of misery

No cure for those who left us

No cure