They are not scholarly persons,
But are most selfish, most self-centred fellows,
Nothing to do with the world,
Whether exists or not,
But their poetry should be,
The world doomed to end
And the poet reading a paper
To make it endure for long,
Man will not stay,
But the poet will stay put to watch
The cataclysmic changes
By being a fossil.
All calling themselves poets and poetesses,
One addressing another,
Poet, poet, poet
And the lanes and streets filled with the poets,
Petty Indian English poets,
Poets not, practitioners,
Versifiers, rhymers and non-poets
And the teachers after them
For reading papers and getting score points
Or for the career advancement scheme,
The guides too after them
For paper-publication and to oblige through
Writing on them.
But I see more people more intelligent than them,
The sculptors, dancers, singers,
Architects, artists
Who carve out namelessly,
Sculpt, embroider, colour and paint,
But ask for no name and fame,
The house-keepers,
The true scholars
Who run not after fame,
The wild blossoms blooming in the forest tract
And scattering over the pathways,
Do they ask,
Ask for fame, say you?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem