The water never curves at noon
The rock is heart, pebbles are bones,
Twisted like a dry branch on sand
Faded in colour and shine of past.
Vehicles spoil the decay more
Sand is loaded in unfriendly way,
The city bristles in villas of gold
The river unlucky in little tears.
The water of drains driven blind
People recklessly throw the dirt,
Corpses are burnt as if a graveyard
Smoke and dirt spoils the heart.
The river is lonely, devoid of care
Once it got from the green hill,
Far from birds of happy notes
Soon the river will breathe last.
It remembers its magic wings
Flying through hills and dales,
Like an old woman still and mute
Vainly look back her golden spring.
Scorched in the passion of dark-goals
People hide faces from ghastly sight,
Though born from its sandy-bank
The city treats it as an alien in eyes.
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