Love and its colours,
Love of the mother, love of the sister, love of the brother,
Love of the son and the daughter,
Sometimes wets it
And we grow emotional about
And this is called love.
The house where I was born, where I grew up,
The house where I lived with my parents,
I have not forgotten, I still remember them
Lifting the curtain of memory.
The love of the small sister who used to tie the rakhi on the wrist,
I have not, have not forgotten her,
The memories still keep wetting me.
The love of the daughter who is with me for sometime,
I think of and feel about them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem