The monsoon came, the days dispersed,
But there had been load upon my chest,
As snow becomes a load on the mountains,
The load that does not permit stones to breathe,
Nights are same like long dejected,
Just like shapeless, half-made statutes,
All paths are desolate, all roads are deserted.
The airs might share the loads of mountains,
There might be at least some prints on the paths,
But who will share the pain of night that I undergo,
The pain that placing its head in my lap,
Waits for a fleeting dawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem