Apples still come from Kashmir
pale pink in crates in winter’s market.
Each grew through the year till it absorbed
the valley’s sweetness and undertaste
and reached its final shape and weight.
They are not dead, but come to fruition.
When you bite them, not blood,
but the valley’s clear juice floods your mouth.
[From St Cyril Road and other poems]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I want a summary of ur poem Apples still come from Kashmir