chasing away the swarms of flies-
he makes awhile busy
a crumpled hat a tattered shirt
peeps his narrow chest hairy
talking to noone- he cried
sometimes miserably
some old rags a few plastic bottles
he is treasured solemnly
making face to a stranger
he readies for a combat
a streetside tree or
beneath the flyover
he stretches himself on a mat
pissing in front of the ministers
he exhibits his democracy
with a pair of castaway shoes
he walks lazy.
all the sweeping dust
shines on his face
he is not a bit
shame to ablaze.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem