In the lap of my woes I collect
Shattered pieces of lost dreams;
I trudge along the frayed vestige
Of childhood years holding in
Bunches dry flowers of memory;
It was summer all along, with
Seamless mornings and dry noons
And night soaked with salty sweat;
Heart still bears sound of cries of
Wolves running mad in backyard
When reeling on mud floor under
Hot roof we scratched skin to bleed;
Smell of pox is still fresh on walls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem