At nights Shem combs her hair with the mountain breeze And exposes the green meadows of her breasts To the moonlight The bees of a sweet dream start making their comb in the drowsy trees of her eyes. Until her lips become a breakfast For a kiss long enough to span her lifetime When she wakes in the morning She finds Manna has rained on her breast: This is Dewana's love His heart bits has mixed with the thread Of wild flowers leaves The soft mountain breeze With its herbal hands Picks them up softly, softly Carries them over the river of history Proceeds them in Shem's dreamy eyes And prints them on her breast. This story never ends. Neither do you get tired of death Nor do I from burning in love. Look at me then I swear to turn my long black hair Into a bundle of snow Strong enough to melt the forehead of Hell I swear to regrow in my jail With even more wrathful roots. At night Shem dreams of the breeze of the mountains And combs her hair with a handful of snow She puts her white bosom In a little pink mouth. She sings lullabies for life And rocks the cradle of death.