When I sit alone with you
With my imaginations few
On the grassland green
Down the sky in dream,
I lose myself in somewhere
To find my concrete pair.
I know you will write oneday
Something to homage pay.
I am to wait here for runner
And waiting makes me poorer
In body and mind, Tithonous like
Or like that sombre poem's Pike.
O what I am writing is nonsense
Reading Godot's meaning dense.
Some says waiting is positive,
Deliberately I pass thinking negative.
I waited, wait and will wait for ever
Say to me the Keatsian adieu never.
If my imagination loses you here
I will be the Eliot famous in future,
With my modern Waste Love Land,
With no 'Shanti' but only desert sand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem