At a little strikePoet weeps
Man hears not that sound.
Birds & animals hear,
So do trees and plants.
Poet weeps
Wind blows the whit of weeping
There traverses the Himalayas
Over a certain remote village.
Poet weeps with mortified soul,
Poet weeps like river,
Within poet there rises blubber and sandy desert.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem