Time is sprinting under the wan stars,
Colors are lost,
What shall it take to get me bailed?
Either I don't remember things or I remember them in great details.
I feel like a lonely Mussoorie road,
On an early August evening;
In the hollowness of the uninhabited misty mountains,
I lie in the lap of old Pine trees,
On the bed of snow,
Breathing out myst,
With a glove in left hand,
Manipulating tiredness;
I've made friends with a scared pack of wolves,
I bolviate,
Expecting help, in finding my stolen glove;
In the socket-chiseled teeth of strife,
Where the time is sprinting under the wan stars,
Colors all lost,
I shall drink my share of ardent love & life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem