The look, the smile, the gesture,
Open profile of mystic lake,
Who dare to judge, if she is real or fake,
The ever confusing maiden she is,
And more than Pandora's box her presence awakes.
She causes storm in man's psychic,
With little teasing of her response,
The epics hitherto she causes to govern,
And Time fails to record the mystery of her urn.
Helen, Cleopatra, Sita, Dropodi and so on,
Are born and gone,
But she remains as the damsel of the first morn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem