I believe, I am dead my dear friend,
For I can see you roaming around;
And in spite of my continuous call,
You neither hear nor sense them at all.
I know you are gonna bury me soon,
and dispose my belongings in store room;
May be you will donate one or two of them,
To the beggar sitting at the corner of lane.
But that old pink pullover of mine,
And that red scarf with white line;
Why did you put them in garbage bin?
I know they are old with holes within.
But, I thought you liked them as you liked me, didn't you?
And wished to keep them even after my funeral is through.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem