The cry pierced the silence,
Tore a hole, in the invisible air,
Which in the face of things, was fair,
'Cept it came from this side o' th' fence.
'Tis mine! The cry, my cry!
For relief, for freedom,
For I'm trapped in the kingdom,
Of cruel, cruel love, and my blood's going dry.
I hear the silence well,
I'm too used to it, you see:
My cry reverberates back to me,
No other voice, can I tell.
Isn't anyone there today?
No one who heard me cry?
No help I get, no matter how much I try;
Hey, traveller, you have nothing to me to say?
Hi Dyuti, a poet never wants help from other and the unttered cry is the source of poetry. Thanks. Tapas Baidya, Kolaghat, Purba Medinipur, W.B., India.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love piece, touchy poem. Love it.