The time when wood-smoke curls,
Smells of frying onions and other cooking carry,
Cattle heavily amble back to their places of rest,
Dogs scratch and children chase in a desultory way.
A few hurry to buy provisions for the night meal or the morrow,
While men relax and pass the time of day with neighbours;
To the west, still apparent in a spreading evening mist,
The beckoning dreamy gold of the road to Samarkhand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There's something in this poem that sparks off an image of nostalgia and deja vu in me.. good one.