The bend is not as sharp as my nail
When I alighted from my mind;
The grass is not as smooth as my hair
When I lost my thoughts in bunches;
The tepid flow of unsavoury tales
Rubbed off the relaxation from
Cups of tea in the shack of wood;
Blessed light has shaken off
Its glow to be recognised as dark
When biting lips I come down
To the streets shunned by gentlemen;
To regain the taste of the skin
Snatched away during my
Naming ceremony under the canopy
Of traditions and old adages.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
under the canopy of traditions and old adages..well said