The gentle wind softly chimes the bells
A sound I'd love to hear again
Afterall better than what my mother yells
my mother, my father, my dear pain
The highstone walls, the narrow path
and with the ones who are caring
Leads to a mournful destructive aftermath.
The oddest of ornaments one is wearing
The ones who're walking this narrow path
Never feel the charm of a breeze
The world outside the walls is wrath
hey wish that I impersonate their every sneeze
But imagination takes e to everything's eternity
I see every bit of nature's hue
But those narrow minded call it impurity.
To beggars ignorance they threw
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
my mom uses to have a very shrill voice a terrible temper too...today i miss all..i too started writing at a very young age but was a secret writer...my parents were not very keen readers...they never stood in my way when i read tagore, bharathiar, kabir in fact they provided me the money...i never expected them to appreciate my works...narrow paths and high stone walls are full of care and love...your rebel teen age shows in this poem friend