Old fresco

Old fresco

The hot sun melts the sand
You rarely see a sprout in the desert
Caravans go through the centuries,
The fragments of empires are carried away by the river
The walls of Khorezm remember the flourishing
They remember from what no longer exists.
An old fresco will tell you
About Amu Darya, red with blood,
About the warrior who raised the cup of wine
And the woman who weaved the patterns of the carpet,
Only a ray of sun will fall on her
And ancient Khorezm will come to life again ...