The wall departed and I saw fog,
A pale touch and it turned into smoke;
The fairy tales wither away,
Found the lost fantasy world at bay;
The nomadic world will never flock,
This land is for the farmers of smoke;
Cultivation of tripy fields,
We wait for the harvest,
Every seed of our fate,
Deep down stored in the locked closet;
The field’s on fire every day, every night,
The inner self at its peak,
With the gods of water we fight;
The fields turn into ashes,
And we rise for a new yield,
Like a phoenix, from the ashes of weed.