How many a time will you pierce?
How many more wounds will you bestow?
I bleed!
The wound is deep! !
The woman in me is dead.
I’m merely a body, a dead body!
I live...It’s staggering..., but
I do live!
Death be not proud!
Bereaved, I curse you,
My calls do not move you?
I know, for me too is woven a shroud,
Death be not proud!
Incessant stabs, Innumerable wounds,
How many more stabs?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Excellent! this is really great1