When the destined place of arrival closes in
a leaf of memory throbs with the long
memento of landmarks reached and missed;
Let missed calls die out in the log.
Regrets ever remain in unused folders,
pop up to be trashed into the bog;
Monsoon flies buzzing around the bulb.
On the winding path skirt the shrubs,
breathe the fragrance of fresh blossoms;
Things lost or denied count less than
trees flitting across the train’s window;
Spinning on its thumb the earth has seen
the revolving ends of despair and hope;
Who am I in this rolling circus?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem