Clothes which cover us from up to down.
Wore by an actor or a clown.
These are woven when the weavers work hard,
But still the weavers are poor bard.
Shine like the silent skies in the fairs.
Kept in stalls, layer upon layer.
Coulourful as the rainbow in the sky,
Which look beautiful even in gaudy light.
The wanderers appreciate it and they don't lie,
And make numerous lines to buy.
So beautiful, so colourful yet not proud,
Which make the people to happily shout aloud.
People feel sad after leaving the weavers who were polite,
And hope that someday there may come a bright light.
To the weavers less hardly the poverty bites.
Who are ever-ready to work day and night...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem