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Blank pages aren't blank; indeed, they're painted and graced with art. Blank pages talk; they talk mountains and listen seas. Those who come with stripes on their eyes and shoulders in their ears are blank, absolutely blank.

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We are the people of tents,
Far from our homeland;
Even the shooting stars frighten us,
And even the August rain trembles us.
There may be people enjoying the pastures,
But we run to catch a glimpse of markets.
We wish to travel in cars;
And the horse rides tease us.
The delicacies from an open fire
And the sleep on the floorless ground
Are the wishes from palaces and a woe for us.
We are the people of tents who wish to die
On the land, the homeland.

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