The man is
almost boiled
in the bowl of tear
on the stove
fiercely burning.
Ashes from
the last night fire
is being washed
to recover the dreams
if left unburnt.
Nights with a myriad dreams
spent unslept.
Somebody
records every beat
beneath the breastbone.
The smile on the wall
so cruel
unzips the manhood
again and again.
The vital necessity of subservience to God is the recommended drug of your poem while the soul moves towards inertness in the form of despair. The man is almost boiled in the bowl of tear! Your “A Burnt Silhouette” is a wonderful poem dear Binay!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The burnt silhoutte is a nice poem.loved to read.