My first poem was not written
only felt like golden words from wise people
changed history inscribed on first page of magazine
however my mother had told
she wanted to record whatever I say when I was small
my teetotaler made sense and not
my sisters would tamper the lock of my diary
that stationary owner still stacks them in shop window
the moon in my room's windowpane hangs
in an imaginary web of spider
sometimes I think as in childhood I light a lamp
in a camp and resound in the glory of my thoughts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well articulated and nicely brought forth with conviction. Thanks for sharing, Neelam.