You certainly not in a good mood,
So the morning-lustre beclouded;
Even the trees never shedding hoods
Also shrouding all the roads shed.
You certainly not embellish yourself
The day as if an anaemic patient;
How poor! crunched, gobbled by elf; -
Leaving hole too come out serpents.
You surely not open your lotus-eyes;
At high pleasure dancing shadow-witch
Flapping wings blood-sucker bat flies...
The world rolling towards the ditch.
You haven't read any composition;
The poets lost zeal of writing poems...
The heavenly bodies stopped motion;
Scattered on the dust despised gems.
You certainly not stepped forward...
The coiled roads now in hibernation;
lying down torn bed dreaming cowards,
The house itself would reach destination.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem