At the mud wall hangs a landscape in a painting
Which by its everlasting presence is left disinherited.
The mountain, cart, sickle, a reaper all standing firm at their place.
Along with the flying hay, flowing water, pile of colors,
all the rustling and rumbling world,
Suddenly along the tremendous outpouring from the landscape
a fine thread of of boredom seeps in
The tense yearning came rolling through the thread
gripping the world of young.
The boredom was new to her
and too bountiful for her tender hands.
She does not know whom to give it to
Or to take it to other dimension, the future,
Which is yet to take shape in her life
But behind the landscape
Is nothing more than the transient transit.
On her own she consecrate the image of a friend
Visiting her, with whom alone she can share her playthings,
Thus can roll a new begining.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
absolutely brilliant :)