In the yellowness
The canvas has disappeared
Only an iron easel
Is standing steadily
Elegy is being penned for him
Whom the time rendered
The colour of the heart
A Silk-cotton tree is standing erect
Like a silent friend
A stream is flowing
Like a string of tears
A gush of wind is saying
The painting that disappeared
Was not a believer in speech
The feeling of a good painting is
Always in its silence
The sun is setting
The yellowness has commenced its detour
To its abode
(Translated from Original Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem