I moved ahead
slowly only.
Very slowly.
The tiredness and surprise
every time
to start from the beginning
again and again
wraps me blanket like,
a magical dream
of a journey's route.
I have looked on
with a child's surprise
at handspans and cubits
sliding in play
to change places.
The usual math of
subtracting the surprise
and multiplying grief
is boring.
Phew.
They are always
in the preparatory stage.
Women's colours
must wait without
the brush drying up.
That, is an endless
painful task.
As the game continues
keenly with a dream
and a heavy mountain
right next it,
the link to a life
suddenly snaps
and hangs.
When everyone lauded
the unfinished painting
fitted on to the frame
as modern trend of art,
you may have heard
the whispers
seep through
the gaps in the frame.
Translated by: Sri Vatsa
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem