I Poem by Sanjay Mehta
I
So possessive
With this I and my
Waste entire life
In this quagmire
The physical form
Or physiological self
Or the name holds you back
Or the glory of the clan
Deeds misdeeds
Chain the bird
Otherwise
Which higher could fly.
Harsh but abstract reality
With firmly entwined roots
If cut
With rejuvenated vigour
It does reproduce
Let it abound
With no bounds
Some day
Plemsol line it will surround.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 9:32:25 PM # 1.0.0.1119
