I scour the cottage for signs of past presence
L ike a famished orphan at the erstwhile site
O f a long-spilled rice-sack, grubbing some essence,
V estige of sustenance. Hope gutters fitfully not quite
E xtinguished. I stroke reverently the seat-belt strap
Y ou wore in my vehicle. Your coffee-cup a Holy Grail.
O n my hearth a ghostly print, hazard-hap
U nder your leaning hand, now cold as winter's hail
A t a stranger's touch but under mine, burning
L ike the coals contained within. The wind,
W histled down by winter's inevitable returning,
A rticulates 'Patricia Ann, Patricia Ann' behind
Y our back in my chimney and your phantom dust
S trikes shafts of sunlight as it ever must.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem