A collective dirge rose
From the conglomerate
Of sterile wombs
Where do the still-born
Get buried in the narrowing
Graveyards of shrinking mind-scapes?
What distinguishes a still-born dream
From a still-born babe remains
A question forever unanswered
The dirge circles around the ears
Like a mosquito in the dead of night
The potted body loses its sensitivity
Sterility multiplies on make-believe beds
The dirge rings loud and clear
In every conceivable corner!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem