At the foot of the lofty Wutusi mountain,
There is a clear ripple.
Hugging my grandma’s neck, in my childhood,
“Where does the spring flow to?” I asked.
She told me a tale about a distant past:
The two brothers of Karamanids from Samarkand…
I listened, and listened, into a hazy sleep to be fallen
With a hint of sweetness, in my Dream I smiled …
Today, to the camel spring I finally returned.
In my eyes, a magical land
There is the hard planting, harvest
The sun shine and also the storm.
In the ancient stone camel hunchback,
I found my hometown’s brook.
Also my early lost childish dreams
On the clear water of the camel spring flashes.
