The images that flashed by,
In M.F, Hussain’s green eye,
Would remain as eternity’s fragments.
And ages to come would see them as garments
Of the wild Artist’s soul
And time will not wither
Like transient feather,
The realities of the cosmos live,
Though at the end of the voyage,
Now at harbor is the ship.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem