It blows softly
through a transient
heaven in my heart.
It brings the smell of
soap-suds. Portrait of a
nude damsel gets visible
on mind's canvas. Soon it
brings the fragrance of incense
smoldering in a prayer room. I
sin and purge myself in the same
breeze. As I lie fatigued, my spirit
revives in the wind. Sweat gets dry.
A secular wind. Holy chants of people
in diverse creeds flow merged in the breeze.
It passes, patting everybody, yet nobody sees.
First printed in The Literary Hatchet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem