The canvas has lost itself
In the yellows;
It's an iron easel that solely stands firm.
Time pens an elegy for him
On whom it had bestowed
The hues of the heart
A silk cotton stands
As a mute comrade
As tears the stream flows
A gust of breeze rushes to state—
The vanishing portrait never believed in utterances;
It's quietude wherein lie
The feelings of a masterpiece.
The sun is on its descent.
The yellows course to their nests.
(Translated by Krishna Dulal Baruah)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem