Weaverbirds are back to their divine duty
Weaving noise in harbinger of soon dawn,
As they knell death of my gone days
Ushering in my new tortures of life,
Salting up fresh the memory wound
Of my yesterday on which I stand with no compass
To give me the atlas point of my today.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem