I've walked a long.
A long ways and paths are passed
though yours days are older, but I
made my days turning behind the ages
and my poetry tells of a daughter unborn to the earth.
But in my mind
a girl cries a lot, a lot she fathers my feelings of fatherhood.
Jerry, how are you?
Did you forget the boy you met?
Or did you hear of his daughter unborn to your world?
I'm the boy
touched the keys of the board of poetry
and found the name you belong to.
From the Green land of Bangla and
of religion-blinded empire of the fools and foolishes,
I wrote you, recall?
Jerry, my friend, how are you?
Or let me befriend, if not.
My daughter is dead and not, and born and not.
She is and not. But you my poet,
how you are?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem