The morning filled is with blossom
but my soul is worrisome
something is missing in this world
is there anyone to be there for the Uyghurs?
Even the corners of these streets
are cold like a city of graveyards
I can’t feel my Uyghurness anymore
my tongue stutters.
It’s difficult to differentiate the seasons
knowing only the falling of leaves
and the growing of blossom
in nights of solitude I mourn,
there is no dawn star I can greet.