Leave something behind: a trace of cloud
on a plate, a pair of white birds
shot by a hunter, an emerald brooch
that a shrub snatched from a princess in flight
or the archer's last prayer, spoken minutes before
his brother's arrow found his throat.
Leave us these threads to unravel, embroider:
secret messages inked in white
on white beneath the unsettled weeks
of postcards and air letters
that jam the mailbox while we're away.
Leave us the jigsaw of previous lives.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Feeling nostalgic Reminded me of Sanskrit kavya literature I used to study. Nice poem. Thanks.