a rugged statue of black stone'
sitting folded at the waist;
touching ground with his head,
almost like half dead half alive;
under the shed of concrete bridge,
breathing toxic fumes of lorries
he asks for alms to keep his clan alive;
taken as a common sight,
passersby ignore the fire burning
within the skeleton;
the cars whizz past sprinkling
mud water from the road side
puddle; and he wipes the smell of
petrol from his matted beards before
he dies one more time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem