The narrow gullee
Walled off by brick walls
Of the Madarsa
Desecrated by graffiti
Sprayed with betel spit
Over-stenched gutters
Dung cakes like peeping toms
Behind garbage heaps
The sudden left turn
The familiar bump
A breath held
For centuries
A hasty look at
The dusty trunk
A shriveled form
Behind the tree
A stifled scream
Of what might
Have been
Monita Soni August 30
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem