Kipling's Indian sepoy too has turned into
a writer of verses,
Whatever it is coming in his mind idly
He putting down on the webs
Without writing the manuscript.
A radio man, a wireless man, a stenographer,
All poets, verse-writers,
The new poets from India,
Kilpling's old Indian sepoy,
The old matriculate too calling himself a poet
After dabbling in his pastime.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem