The arrows of my wooden bow turned out
To be the pith of water rush grass;
The Rajdhani of the kingdom
Fell into the rustic hands of
A crude carpenter;
In the midst of a busy bazar,
Lockless remained my shop,
And a pilgrimmageless self.
I became:
Who appreciates, my friend .
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem