upon his great monument
early this morning
some tiny needles of rain
are falling
lush grasses below his feet
untrimmed
around him are the mango trees
unpruned
the white paint is looking old
motorcabs pass by
some women with black umbrellas
rush along the sidewalks
the rain falls heavily now
each rushing to take their chosen
shades and then stop for a while
nobody cares what he really
said
nobody reads what he had written
he is past.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem