Charcoal
Youngsters exchanged winks:
"He is old…gunny pig."
Could have meant much, much more.
In between, I smiled with no talk.
Could hear the old one, in his heart:
"Poor these kids…"
He, the old knew what charcoal is:
"Half dead-killed."
He recalled the old days and the wells
some tinder and soft wood at the base
then trunk and the boughs, branches
after time; not extent, and then sealed.
Heat would burn the wood but
it turned to ash…
"Young goes buys in the shop; if ever! "
Thought the old:
"And fruits, natural taste and nature? "
He whispered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem