Poetry embraces death,
When the poet digs for ornaments,
That the poems are adorned with,
Yet finds he none.
Death of poetry,
Means the death of the poet,
Something none ever expects truly,
Yet such moment does arrive.
Poetry breathes its last,
If the poet is not neutral,
In his mind-set,
And if he writes for fame alone.
If there is no sense of duty,
In the heart of the poet,
Towards the society,
Then poetry becomes a room with no windows.
A poet must write,
Whatever he feels like,
But the good taste and art in it,
Should ever breathe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem