I could not love you dearest,
For I could not know my morbid mind,
With your presence, I sought, purgative,
Of my stirred senses’ hounds.
Had it been so, I were a widow,
With no care –takers, as I take privilege,
Of the crumbling, crawling, daily mirage.
The evacuation of cavern-full smokes.
Would you kindly wait dearest,
A century more, in this seven seas gate
With your boat here?
Would you let me undress,
The residue of scorpions,
And be bare to give you weightage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem