My soul now lies
in brown hours
like the unravished letter
trapped inside a brown envelop.
Its packed substance
that buries the most unknown me
stands under delay's sovereign trial-
tedious air hooks a body up-
Let's not be hopeful
as to the fate of the letter.
No, no! its tight lipped patience is
most suicidal.
Sorry! some letters are written
not to be read at all-
postman drops them in enigmatic void.
some words are for ever brown-
or, meant for careful burial.
or, on the unmindful mossy floor
they would cause the world
to slip and suffer million accidents.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem