A mundane afternoon, all asleep,
though not my imagination, sure,
the sun up, above all heads,
the golden light, as bright, as pure...
My hands going helter-skelter on my page,
my ink, becoming blotchy at every stage,
Oh! could they see the things I could?
I was thankful to Lord that they could not,
A small smile lit my sly face,
though my brows were with a frown fraught...
Oh! Why that frown when your smile says differently?
And the answer remains unanswered on my dry lips,
A sudden call from the thunder heard,
As though a hundred thousand boyish pips...
Is the nature also reciprocating my feelings?
I could not understand why the sudden stormy-call...
Nor the gentle drip-drip outside,
nor the sudden dampening of my walls....
But then the frown vanished,
and so with it, the rain,
I smiled from ear-to-ear,
at the depression that my heart had slain...
Again the sun shone, peeped out of the clouds,
My writing again became clear,
As all had risen form a deep slumber,
all near to me, all dear...
Then the smile changed into a laugh,
sojourn of the times immemorial, happy,
they wrote together and I could see
all hands writing the same lines,
though in different script, different styles,
And these are the people who'll accompany me always,
And show me, it's April fool, when I think its May's days....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice depiction.........keep up