Don't ever dissect my poems,
On Literature's callous table,
They are simply injured moments,
Of my love's unforgettable fable;
Don't expect blood to flow,
Within a set scale,
Don't set parameters,
For any one's wail;
Some tears may make,
A line longer than another,
Some may cling to the nib,
And drip on paper.
A wave is the same,
As its puddle or vast ocean,
So how can a teardrop be,
Different from its emotion?
Not all dark thoughts
Are lucky to see light,
Some are dead unsaid,
Some suffer Time's blight.
Yet there are some thoughts,
Which hanker for longevity,
They creep out of eyes and enter
Poems, in the hope of Eternity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem