In the cold morning
he slogs along the chilly road,
yawning drowsily
in an oscitant mode
Worn-out and dirty clothes
he looks like a phantom
so soundless
among his working group
Their bus hurtles forth
they haste and fall and slide
thrusting to get into the bus
others crawl helplessly
Late-night- the darkest hour
the bus swings back,
the worn-out toiler gets out
ruined like a wreck
He could not move a single leg,
in a cold, dead state,
he is helpless in his
face of fate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem