The inner pot agitates
As the cooker whistles thrice
Then for the fourth, fifth, sixth and nth times
Forgetting that the stove is on
I wander in thoughts
From the comforts of morning winter bed
To the dining table chores
From the dress to wear for the party
To the recent year fashion
From the conversation to strike
To the special lunch to prepare
Recovering to cool the cooker
I open the lid to uncover
The dry black soot at the bottom
With the charred grains of rice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem