In Coorg's mist where secrets lie,
A tea estate where whispers sigh,
Zainab tends with gentle care,
Each soul she meets, a bond to share.
She knows the hills, the paths they take,
The dreams they hold, the hearts that ache,
In every cup, a story brewed,
Of warmth, of love, of gratitude.
A traveler came with data, cold,
To teach her ways both new and bold,
But Zainab smiled, her wisdom deep,
"For hearts, " she said, "no charts we keep."
The Sufi way, so calm and still,
In Coorg it flows, like rivers will,
To know a soul, to feel its grace,
Goes beyond the numbers we chase.
In every sip, the hills, the tea,
Zainab's heart, wild and free,
In modern life, a truth remains,
To know, to love, is all that gains.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem