My tears fall on the body of the paper
And themselves write woeful poems.
I only decipher them.
So praise me not for what I write
Nor chide me.
Deal with those artistic tears.
They stay hidden behind my black eyes
Somewhere that I even donot know.
They bury themselves
On the white of the paper,
Sacrificing themselves
Like martyrs
Splashing it like a new bride's cheek.
They are the true poets
Bestowed with copious creativity
Who are, infact, represented by my pen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem