My shrine
I feel like I will once
Be found as
It has come in news.
He asked me if he could:
“Build shrine after years…? ”
He stopped, restart:
“…whenever you eat dust…? ”
I became divided
Selfish-side, and humble
Gave the rein to latter:
“Sure cannot…”
My softness gave friend the power:
“We live in Canada; forbidden is jungle….”
Took breath and refreshed:
“Can take you to Talish…”
Embarrassed; felt great:
“I have said what I want
My words are my grave
They must be scattered
Shall become tombstone
Round the world, all over
In such case I will have
Some masses of graves
Not just one under rock,
Nor shrine or unknown.”
My body, in bone form
Can be found in roots of
A tree when fallen
Bicentennial or thousand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem