A poem is a lover's call
Across the timeless river of death separating
the beats of life from the loving hearts.
Millions of legs, tight and stout, step out
Of their weak doorsteps
With their empty but mighty hands;
They never shirk working anywhere,
In any way, or so many ways
In any circumstances
Melting even Dallol, the hottest
With their cool-mindedness
Or heating even Oymyakon, the coldest
With their hot blood.
......
A poem is a lover's call
Across the timeless river of death separating
the beats of life from the loving hearts.
Millions of legs, tight and stout, step out
Of their weak doorsteps
With their empty but mighty hands;
They never shirk working anywhere,
In any way, or so many ways
In any circumstances
Melting even Dallol, the hottest
With their cool-mindedness
Or heating even Oymyakon, the coldest
With their hot blood.
......