Temperature in me kept rising
in geometrical progression
And she went on gossiping
in geometrical progression too;
Tell me, what was to be done?
Was it not a dying situation
Or feeling like living dying?
Tell me, what was to be done?
My frustration bade me for deserting;
After some steps, she embraced calling;
Tell me, what was to be done?
No way out but returning,
Then, she asked about my saving;
Tell me, what was to be done?
Last time, her hands held me tight;
When I was about to reciprocate—
She asked about the other women in my life.
Tell me, what was to be done?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem