The weeping wetness of love of heart
Like a shadow,
like the treasure of heart,
I hold close to my heart
as my own
‘the pains of wetness of love.’
For the safety of that mother
who gave birth to children, but dead ones
I, the charioteer of bad times
wear the clothes of adopted son
but without knowing how long
I will hold the weapons
and count and store the losses
In my aimless, guilty conscience.
The horoscope of star of unknown times
turned into strings of swing in holy copse
the despairs of perpetual wait
became the bright blessing of dusk of life.
Even when you come and smile,
in front of my door of remembrance
the trains run fast, just for journeying,
without track and without travelers.
In the heart
burns the smoldering coal, while
the birds of grief play sitar
and sobs sit with
at the final nightfall of a wasted birth
The pain as offering of my departure,
and the distress of sharing my sorrows,
are the war-cries to realise
the meaning of life fed up with my loss.
Do you know how much relished my mind
knowing that you won!
the passenger, who is afraid,
much more than the gods of this world,
of the children whom I gave birth
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