We met after a dream;
When yester –years would have gone –
We were grey and finite with time,
But dreams were as young as moon.
Silent; I spoke the beauty –
When loneliness enjoyed them,
I have made my cheeks bedewed with,
When you wiped them off with the vanished hand,
Heart dashed beneath, in tenderness,
Path looked to right –steep mountains,
Like pearls turned stronger with years,
As rivals sound in grievous volume,
Beauty picked that roaming bird,
And we are not sad and cold as separation,
Its beauty is true to itself, and not futile,
As ages can never make us old and lone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem