Winter stole the road of seasons.
A lonely bud forgot to rise.
The branches whisper in their sleep.
No rain comes down to wash the sorrow.
No autumn color fights the cold.
Tell me, gypsy, where’s your black tent now?
Where do the tired tribes go?
You carry the tribe on your shoulders,
walking toward a green air of spring.
A green air of spring—
somewhere beyond the frost.
The moon drags a star across the sky.
The sun falls slowly into dusk.
My heart is cloud, my heart is waiting.
My heart is calling for the rain.
Rain that strikes the mountain’s shoulder
till the mountain stands again.
And in the wind a secret travels—
spring whispered to a gypsy girl.
Arsalan-Wiesbaden
10 March 2026
