Faces are slipping off the mirror
Today I find in the depth of your face the stains of that broken mirror.
Everywhere it is like white eyes of widows…
O day, O night, O spring, autumn season
O wings of butterfly, feathers of birds, O vermilion of Vrindavan
Nowhere there is colour
My henna garden is covered beneath the black mist.
I have heard if henna leaves are rubbed on stones the poison of colours come out
Todai I have converted my heart into stone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem