Our mind is full of tricks,
tricks that was once of survival,
are now that of greed,
How will poems of peace flow from it,
we force upon a poem, still yet
and by more discerning, get caught,
what are the way out.
, all those mango blooms, let me recollect,
Lo, the dry dead plant grow a green shoot,
with a single spring sentinel,
my poem freely flows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem