With my tremulous hand I scribble
This letter to you my prized Mama
When I thought I was doing a dribble
To live in my own manner
Your temperate advice to me I thought was quotidian
And I reacted with deep acrimony
When you were only being an ideal guardian
To whom I didn’t need to retort without ceremony
Now on my deathbed I lie
In a strange land of roses, milk and honey
Baffled with life I have to die
With far-off passion, spurious love and blood money
When your uncluttered guidance was mostly needed
It was regrettably least heeded
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem