My Ailing Girl Poem by menash mohan shrestha
My Ailing Girl
Everyday you go through such an ordeal,
For you must suffer before you die.
Every end of the day you die on your bed,
For you can't succumm to struggle.
Now the day has come for you to arise
from your ashes,
For I've asked the trees along my
avenue to welcome you with bouquet
in their hand.
But you lie with your nitemares as ur
watch standstill folding its arms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/8/2026 8:38:06 PM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
