Four truculent decades have trundled down the slope
and the subject life's left me is myself.
Not a Rembrandt self-portrait or a Picasso
or even a tortured Vincent;
merely a portrait to hang in
the closed-door dusty gallery
of a man who has no claim on the world
(from The Migrant - notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998))
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem