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