When even the slower pace of
life, could not be hold,
Just unknown activities,
Hopeless problems himself were to
harass.
The riders of mind were not
provided with proper nurishment,
Those dull days, wake the strong desire to become an ascetic.
In Sad days,mind was automatically mapping the
Himalyan.
In those very days,we stepped out
in unlustful and clean premises,
Without any warm wrapping.
Bereft of father's protection and
mother's love,
Those days were the orphan days
to live our own.
Beyond the softness of love and any confussion,
A far spreaded, scattered days,
Somewhere far away from the
mildew days.
Away from everyday scrimmage and
Tam ladder dredge,
Clean and , tidy.
Sprawling days like the clothes
hung on ripcord.
Even the nights settling down at
the edges of those days,
Forgot the paths of dreams.
Then only, revealed the common
strategy of world and dreams.
We were sitting with our back
toward worldliness,in those days,
And there was a secret agreement
between worldliness and dreams
With deaf ear to every knock; the
days of solitude stubborn yogi,
Then we had donated the entity of, all the worries.
Making proper distance; Like table-cloth laid
straight, in wait,
In those days we drank enough geriatric
rosy-evenings.
Slept with firmly tied corners of
white sheet.
Relentlessly to target on stone
age;
We wanted to blow up our pet
dreams, one by one,
In those very days.
Also, we wanted to see ;How Big
is the sky for those dreams?
Blood was dripping for years, in
the courtyard of our soul.
And the resulted anguish of not
realised them was reduced in compunction.
Nevertheless, the dreams have
left their footprints.
When the turn of choosing
something come up;
In queuing times,never falling
short in the series,
We chose those peerless days.
So far, we did not have chewed a
piece of them,
The days with head tied scarfs,
Go by looking at the sight of
squirrel’s agility.
Yet there was not any compunction
on;
Losing of noon of the day.
The smell of gas gulped in the
arteries, and we are certain.
On otherwise days we might be packed into a bundle, with died
of fear.
But those were unsurpassed days.
The pleasure to sit close to
those days was delight and frowzy,
When in any exercise; those days will be recorded,
The same days will make NOISE in
our ACCOUNT.
Translated by the poet herself
