Some day we’ll take each other hand in hand
and we’ll go together toward Samarkand,
the white city with golden domes,
wealthy by cloths, spices, gold, and camels.

We will not stop for anything,
not deceived by reflections
shining on the tails of peacocks,
nor by the distant thunder rumbling on the horizon.

We’ll walking joyful between the streams
of the earthly paradise.
Just let me the time to catch a peach
from the tree of good and evil.

Samarkand lies ahead at the end of the road,
but it is no longer the legendary city.
Gold has faded, the market is dumb,
the white walls feel the weight of years.

We will refresh that gold,
we’ll revive the left fountains
from which milk and honey gushed,
and will plant colourful flowers
in the cracks of the white walls.

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