The men; early a.m., smashed,
Mostly bent, dry-wet monsoon moulded
Their tools; knot of grey, yellow, swarthy;
Sinking, parts above water, mouldering,
Other, once shiny silver, now slimy twine,
Heaped in on hand corners; like,
Grandpa’s hung idle chiming timer,
Their useful days, in the balance-over.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem