Treasure
Map in hand, whispering in secret, men in search
They talk of treasure, Pyramids, of Incas and others
Holes are dug, some meet-fight, and blood has spilled
Maps are sold secretly, some burned; some buried
The hearts beat and throb with dream for a glance
Bodies shake; it is worth days and nights sleep-less
In the Louver, Hermitage and elsewhere
Displaced artifacts are great; admired
But the two, though the same, are not same
One's hidden deep in ground one's exposed
The searching day and night with heart beat
That is a story; it's romance...it's something
The room's walls are covered with mirrors; with posters
All great, attractive and reflect; like artworks; museums
But a girl in cover is singled, eyes are filled with questions
She is like treasure; mystery, all wonder: "Something else! "
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem