The feathers of the larva are not still
They are pearly, whipping the gust the chroma of the sky is not leaden, It is the deep blue of a fulgent sunny day.


The truancy of bird carol is not impeding, It is the hoarding and handling of everything into the sewer of hope.


Peace animates as the dusk strikes and the stench of nightfall in every posy, peace comes out as mellow with ridge -peace is the fantasy of Sudan's supple shadow.


Brittle blossom, cloaking your dainty whiteness in the leafy cerement of the unborn clan; a contingent emblem of the eventual guarantee.


Parading people and gyres ceaselessly turning; where once were vines and floras, soft dew-moist hay.


Worthless to wish for lasting peace for all Sudanese to lay down artillery, for all jousting to quit.


You could despair, perceiving peace throughout Sudan no longer distinguishing sermon of war blood mixed with solitary fawn.


We do not have the stamina for cultures, not our grains float on under the weather whirlwind from cradles where they are grown.


Hope fibs in Sudanese heart not yet turned to pebble a brain for the love of Sudanese not friendless.


If all people of Sudan clench each other's hand, they could do what makes lasting peace forever.