Do you hear his retiring, from day long work
his foot lazily falls on the ground
not to annoy earth or from tiredness.
The lossened clay and we call him,
gather round him and fire.
Sitting, the quite hours of childhood,
which have nothing to say.
By and through the fire he changes
everytime his transformation escapes us
stars stay for a while as a mute witness.
Words on the warmth of darting flame
reach our ear
smoke fill up the every space of childhood.
Amidst, he leaves few spaces for us to fill
with whisper and breath.
We the fearful
always fill up
lest his transformation and by him ours
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
through the fire he changes everytime his transformation escapes us stars stay for a while as a mute witness. the ceteris paribus and non-sequiturr of the poem here lies underneath. Very vivid description and rigid imageries galore here.Scintillating poetry.