When a poet had too much pain of labour,

When a poet had too much pain of labour,

too little rain cloud to drink,

And been carrying in basket a broken heart,

He asks the manless wasteland, whatsoever should I write next?

I sensed, I felt, I agonized...but my heart is no longer stirred to motion.

The rising Sun of a foreign horizon darkens the desert.

If he is truly solitary and unloved by all,

God will telephone him (via benevolence of Al-Hatif).

Man does not write Man through his own instrument.

He waits for a camel that helps carry his burden.