The work of English,
Keeps away my childish,
Without any proper dish,
Not even a piece of dry fish.
Are my mates doing the same?
Oh! They are busy with game,
As if they are for it came,
Which would lead to a blame.
It’s impossible to compose,
When I am reluctant to propose,
Something with great purpose,
Forcing the failure to impose.
No, no, I should try,
Or else, Tutor will cry,
Making my lips dry,
Heart on a pan to fry.
Tik, tik, tik, , , it’s 12 morning,
But nothing is creeping,
And my heart is burning,
In a fear of something.
Yet, my head is empty,
Page is not pretty,
Rather it is dirty,
myself felt great pity.
Dechen Lhamo
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem