On this tenth month
The octogenarians are
Also going for love here.
And all worship the ocean
With their own octave.
The ochlocracy is meeting
Its own end, see my dear.
And I know, you are
The only occupant here.
At every odd hour,
You may give a call
And I am ready to touch you
As it is the month of October.
I fear, you might disappear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem