The asthi-kalasha hanging by the old tree
Of the hamlet river,
The small asthi-kalasha
Containing the bodily ashes
In a clay model urn
With the mud wrapped over
So that the birds of prey
May not peck into
As the unburnt earthen lamp,
The navel too is therein,
Telling of an intimate
And unforgettable connection.
Age after age comes in and exits,
Generation after generation,
Bu the river keeps flowing by,
Murmuring sweetly,
Babbling as always,
Sometimes with water,
Sometimes dry
As for the highlands
Swaying downwards,
Just the midstream with
The knee-deep water,
None there
But the asthi-kalasha
Hanging by silently.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem