There are letters waiting
On the table. As I get up my
Eyes fall on the white envelopes.
They make a pile in the middle
Of the table hiding the face of
The Table clock. Must be one
From you. Written with the pen
I gifted. Under the yellowish light
Of the old room- roof leaking in
Rain. I am not going to open it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem