Hair-stands on ends like dry log,
Oiled and coiled like a hangman’s rope.
Eyes-dry and lost; lips-ugly and scared,
Cheeks, with hot, red blisters, crowded.
Legs as weak and thin, like a sugar-cane;
And body as slim and trim like a ghost frame.
Not of silver nor of coral,
But of times, beaten laurel;
Here, is a creation in a fathomless sea;
Un-equal and rough like tapestry.
With an ugly imitation of Khans’ ugly jacket,
Preached by a sister in scantily clad gown, velvet;
Always howling on his brother for his low-down ways,
His prowling, talking, speaks of dark days.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem