Who will tell me
why all paths often lose to the hanging horizon?
Why the soil beyond it stands mutely unseen
when maybe a tract there was loudly foreseen?
Above gathered clouds
like a pack of yelping wolves
chase all the four sides
in the split up grimaced divine mugs.
And our flight of smiles
shed like tuft of plumes loose tears.
And our souls wade through wet beds
maddened by oftentimes monsoon airs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem