I beheld,
A middle aged man,
With an amputated leg,
Laming on crutches,
Dragging the load of his body,
And climbing up
Steep of the hill,
Huffed he at each landing
On the way to his home:
Serpentine and winding.
They say,
He comes down
On the 1st of every month
To get pension,
And while returning
When he goes up
Striving against the acclivity,
His young son of eight
Sometimes drags on the ground,
And sometimes carries
On his shoulder,
An artificial leg of his father:
A veteran of the Kargil War.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great expression, different style.keep on writing.