close beyond our palm, the line focus
it's direction into the beginning of a
mother's conception
walk down the aisle of the lonely hill,
the cultures dictate what the heart
envision the super spectacle of
tradition the world will tell
dying comes in most precious reborn
as death fancy the glimpse of the night,
where the moment of time fade the
essence of moment of what makes the
end begins
replenish my tears, Rabba Maph Kari,
for life, nay comes in the weirdest
and wise existence, it glows falling
like wind in the desert for a nightfall
call
swept it out the, sweat of blood is
falling down, razed us not on fire ….
“ a poem dedicated to Ms Nirupama
Pathak “
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem