We hear the sounds of Sudan,

flowing the bags of rice away,

to give a new path to the world.

The roads are perfumed by the sweet

scent of roses from Bagdad.

And there is still a thread that is missing

from Afghanistan.

The nights are still,

and we feel the shape,

of our bodies.

There is somewhere to feel peace,

and it is in the fields,

where we run,

to find the maturation of the 

fruit tree, when the rice

and the pasta conclude the meeting.