Standing under the hot Sun,
he shouted slogans.
Displayed his sunken belly
and spilled tears.
Wiped and whipped his sweat
and swore on his blood.
That' s all sometime ago
When he was in reds!
Now he turned to all-whites
His khaddar full hands shirt
struggles to hide his pot-belly...
He doesn't remember
when he last did sweat
His air-conditioners are working well.
Now he doesn't shout
doesn't swear...
But sometimes sobbing in deep sleep...
mumbles his old slogans.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Seriousness at one hand and humour on the other hand, this poem is rich with life's unnoticed issues. Well penned uncle