Holding, that which had exited her womb,
all she saw was a misty road covered
with mocking tongues and glass pieces
leading into a deep cavern of poverty.
Hiding the same with a red blanket,
she saw herself on a golden chariot,
in secure, beside a king, with people
around showering petals and praises.
Then there was the river- the free
porter for corpses; the basket-
the coffin's substitute; and darkness -
the canopy that would say nothing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem