That appears my last
race, though sun refuses to set.
Ablaze steals the moment.
*
It comes apart;
the surrogacy of imperfect―
seeds of love and hate.
*
Dry leaves of a tree
will not carry the message of
a beautiful lake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Satish, such a stupendous poem...10+++