Cold silvery water flows hissing like a stream engine and meand towards Arctic's bosom as if it is the Nagapasha astra from the thundering bow of Indrajit.
Ripple dances to a botman's song on the honey pebbles, and on the wet stones like a drowsy crocodile. Isn't it a bride-grooms procession?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem