If the sun chirps, it is chirruping in
Spanish stirrups,
But it doesn’t: it whistles, making its rounds,
Swinging its phalanxes of missing keys-
All it is a head banishing the light:
The sky is not its house.
The moon is not its wife- What is the sun
But a father of world it has no business in,
Penetrating,
Stimulant and spurious it has created a child
It does not know flooding like busy and
Angry ants beneath it,
As it purveys blind and gallant all that it would
Never wish to see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice poem, but entitling it with the last line is lazy. You should think of a better title, a more meaningful one. -LP