Without Complaint Poem by dipak adhya

If you take away your hand,
you may take
your face too,
yet let this one trace remain -
that I had come.
I never told you that you must remember.

I had loved the exquisite, colorful clouds of the autumn sky
like a teenager,
and while breathing in the scent of Chhatim flowers,
I myself had become the gentle breeze in the evening.

Now the sky is pale,
the wind smells of gunpowder.
I have no complaints;
Can one ever complain against oneself!