Blades of straw are still lying leveled
On the ground, left by our worried body,
Blowing crimson dust of twilight, we move
Playing broken harp of forgotten melody.
Three miles gone, then a dried river comes
We cross the bridge of realistic reason,
Nothing to give or nothing to receive
During the sterility of scorching season.
Soul of soil is baked by sunny love
Our stomachs progress in lighting up fire,
Striving hard to count each day, while
Heart has learnt how to burn soft desire.
Four five six more unsure miles to wander
Till we discover a water body on the way,
Then we’ll sleep by it and ask the night
To sing lullaby of sweet monsoon day.
Heart has learnt how to burn soft desire. ask the night To sing lullaby of sweet monsoon day. i like these lines in your poem. lovely one. thank you dear Poetess
And sweet dreams will come to relive the travel-pains.......WIth you miles to go will be tiles crossed.....Loved it, great imagery, very descriptive poetry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Verily, the summer season teaches man to have patience and endure