A small girl
In a loose and olden frock
With the slate and the lime stick pencil
That too half broken
Going to the pathshala
Held under the tree shade
Of the hamlet
With a tattered jute knapsack
Into the small hands of hers
To sit on the bare earth
Without having taken breakfast,
Just stale food
Left after the night-time meal
To sustain in and to read.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem