Table mute, clock still, books silent,
Pitiable is the loneliness of my room,
My room, from years, is counting
Every throb of my heart stealthily,
It has offered me the motherly lap
On the fatigue of existence,
The memories of its silent blessings
Lull my heart to peace,
Its walls accompany me close
To kill the feel of loneliness,
Her two pictures, studded on the front wall,
Stare me lovingly sometimes
As I am the prince of some distant land,
My room, the buddy of my past
Is stranger to every care, every feeling today,
Its tomb echoes my sighs
As some devotee prays on the grave of a saint,
The features of people photographed on the dusty calendar
Gaze at the wrinkles of my face,
As the open eyes of a dead one
Stare at the faces of helpless kinsmen,
Even these books are not soothing today,
The poems of Keats,
The sayings of Aristotle are still as the marble structure,
You say some, Oh! My still beating heart,
You are my shoulder, my friend today,
Give some light to this dark room,
I know what pain you have borne;
Look at the sore wounds of my face,
SEE MY EYES, MY THOUGHTS ARE CHAINED,