translation: **The day just has awakened, but the light hasn’t arrived yet. Dew still drips endlessly from the leaves. The night bird wept last night, But no star offered love. Like the hollows of a tree, Efforts continue, yet the mind aches. Soon, I will fly away- To where the edge of the dream is sharp, Where thousands of cars will get stuck. The mad will once again Drown in their own delusions, While you rush to keep the warmth of your busyness alive. Silently, I listen to its words- By which grave does its home lie? Who wrote its epitaph? Who in London once wore a saree? Which wildflower’s honey tastes sweetest? Which amateur writes love stories like this? In this city’s scent, the earth recoils, Kicked aside, scattered like fallen leaves. I wonder- Is this some twisted song of mine, Sung at a roadside shop, Between borrowed drags of a cigarette, Watching a poet touch his beloved- Is he drinking in her essence?
translation:
**The day just has awakened, but the light hasn’t arrived yet.
Dew still drips endlessly from the leaves.
The night bird wept last night,
But no star offered love.
Like the hollows of a tree,
Efforts continue, yet the mind aches.
Soon, I will fly away-
To where the edge of the dream is sharp,
Where thousands of cars will get stuck.
The mad will once again
Drown in their own delusions,
While you rush to keep the warmth of your busyness alive.
Silently, I listen to its words-
By which grave does its home lie?
Who wrote its epitaph?
Who in London once wore a saree?
Which wildflower’s honey tastes sweetest?
Which amateur writes love stories like this?
In this city’s scent, the earth recoils,
Kicked aside, scattered like fallen leaves.
I wonder-
Is this some twisted song of mine,
Sung at a roadside shop,
Between borrowed drags of a cigarette,
Watching a poet touch his beloved-
Is he drinking in her essence?