Beautiful love stories in gilded frames
Inside the pages were torn, and dog-eared
For too often have multitudes read them and revered them.
These books, they fill your shelves
Now that you are past mid- life;
You know these stories are not yours
In vain had you tried to add a page to the gilded book.
Is it not wise of me then to know that they are fairy tales
And not grovel uselessly to pattern my life on them?
And yet, snatched visions of vermillion, conch bangles and alta.
Fill me with longing.
How beautiful it’d be to be your wedded wife
Saunter about in long corridors of your colossal house
Make it my home, and fill it with the ring of my anklet
So that nothing reached you but me.
Women waiting with a flutter in their hearts
for their beloveds to return
what rare gladness must the mirror give them
Casting their beauty in silk
as if taking a snapshot for eternal tribute.
Like a grapevine to wind against your strong dusky body
And in holding each other, to transcend eternity
And yet, I refrain for eternity lies
Not in the closed corridors but in the sun-lit skies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem