Dusshera
They will throw out the rags
He will not see
the light
He will not have milk or a umbrella
He
will not conceive
He will never conceive
The
beauty of an olive tree I
let it sprout
In the open field,
in the low wood and in the cave
I am giving birth to my son
for the ones
I am giving birth to my son
for the ones
Dusshera