There is no tarmac here,
Just this murram road
That has turned my
Black shoes brown
And threatens to tear them
Whenever the rains come
I rap at almost all the doors
That apparently lead to offices
Only to meet people with dumb faces
Feigning the seriousness of town people
Who have been alienated from their society
And even their own selves.
Schools and village organizations
Turn me down for my qualifications
Which have surpassed their expectations.
Their budgets are even inimical
To people offering to work as volunteers.
They can’t afford they say
I have to find something though
Lest I loose my way
In the forests of water-allergic village girls.
Or in the labyrinth of footpaths
Leading to the myriad local brew dens
Selling their un-adulterated liquors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem