Under the relentless quarry sun,
My hands learned the stubborn grammar of stone.
Dust wandered through the burning air,
Like pale spirits circling my breath.
A shard of rock flashed like sudden lightening,
Shattering the fragile crystal of time on my wrist.
In my open palm, twenty rupees quiet coins glimmered,
Like lonely stars fading in a tired evening sky.
Sweat travelled down my face in silent rivers,
carving the slow scriptures labor on my skin.
Books unfolded their patient wings of wisdom,
Lifting my restless spirit from valley of stone.
Now chalk drifts gently between my fingers,
While young minds blossom like gardens after rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem