This is the lake where the green and the deep blue meet.
This is where you can hear the lonely nightingales tweet.
At this place, you hear the cries of little kids in their games.
The picnic fire warms your freezing body with its dancing flames.
Small waves tremble in the evening to hit the rocky shore.
Little birds around me keep asking for food more and more.
For a few cents, an old man walks on the path playing his flute.
How happy he seems in his torn shoes, on his back wearing an old suit.
Happy couples on benches look into each other's eyes.
The engine sounds of the tractors are heard on the highs.
Bungalows seem like secret shrines as the evening sun sets.
Nature falls into deep sleep, hopeless fishers pick up their nets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem