The ‘I’ who reads my poems
Is not who gave them birth
They peeped out by themselves
When I wasn’t there at all
I merely trapped them
on paper
Real poems are born
In the absence of the mind
Those too full of themselves
Can seldom write
They can become critics, though
Kishore Asthana
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem