A month the room lay empty
Of all but cot and toys
Like a barren field, unstirred by wind
Or the passing of changing clouds
It was a cave without an echo,
Blank canvas. A useless space,
Littered with unused things
Cold to the touch
And hard as plastic flowers
And then a plane touched down
Morning brought a taxi to the door
And the room, like a shrivelled Phoenix
Fattened and flapped its wings
A human infant danced again in its midst
Swaying, a lissom lotus
Smiling up like a butter lamp to a shrine
Bringing the room alive with tiny cries
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem