Night.
A scantily clad sky,
with unkempt clouds.
Moon was climbing.
Caved in.
I had nothing left
to say, except
soundless poems.
No regrets;
in this climactic
struggle of life. The
pain eases, when
memory fails.
The flesh engages the
spirit. End would wait
till the grass banks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem