your body
that’s fond of tv-soap
with its un-worldly moonlight and worldly tricks and posterings
as if it wants to plough
a thin winter that is attached firmly with a mermaid
along with the-path said-by-her
the white leaves are being flown away
on the-path written-by-her
the black-flags are making crowd
in source-root of both of them lies only one opening-song
at the end of both of them lies only one flower-festival
pre-occupied by some other thoughts
it’s least to say
it has nine colours
it has ninety coloured-girls
if its feast be got open
the vermillion-mark of dusts
the garland of wading-birds
the squirrels
in the bed of bananas
in between two stations
when the local train stops
from the logic-card of the pumpkin
it’s produced
always-new such dialects
of the bath- in-the-ganga
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem