Soft sounds and furtive rustlings of a dark night;
The bats are feeding.
Morning displays, on silent pathways,
Pale guavas, ripened custard apples,
Plump, damson-like fruits of the ashoka tree.
Soon, the ants and flies will arrive
To partake of this fortuitous largesse
And to fill the day with a ceaseless buzzing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem