The river gaunt, gnarled and grim
looks at me like a mythical famine victim
with tears of loss, regret and damnation
in eyes' hollowed sockets and matter at the rim,
as if a poor species of pachyderm scared of extinction
stands shocked and still at the edge of a jungle
in the middle of a wood path- bare, specter thin;
shadows of a rich past chase her like an empty dream
clouds sterile lash her banks filled with filth
and desire to join other rivers as a part of nation's plan
remains just an unheard, wild, hollow scream;
the river looks at me like a helpless octogenarian
in the confines of an old-age shelter home
where it seems rich to die than rot like stale water
in the heart of a dying stream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem