Who is going to really tarnish
The imperfect image you created
Yourself on a dusted glass
With whims and fancies sordid.
Ecstasy and hardships are two
Sides of the same coin called life
Lucky are those very a wise few
Who envisage truth without strife
The tarnished image or poor life
The clear glass or a happy living
Both evolved out of you, the self
The creator of bliss and suffering
Tear, emerge out of this cocoon
Freely to fly into the mystic world
Where no misery no joy remain
The place full of divine solitude.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
No misery, only the ‘divine" solitude. Good poem