for Shayaan my son
Son, do not write poems, ungrateful as dreams -
whatever color they are, to hypnotize you
as if you're stuck before a beautiful hooded snake.
Don't be dim-witted and blame them for what they are
because they can't forget their instincts to bite.
They'll just want you to bring them to maturity.
And your reward is death by a poetry-bite.
Immortality will turn out to be a nightmare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem