SEPARATION
KAMALA KANT LENKA
flowers bent down blooming
and in those branches
the moaning of the air is heard.
I
thought during the sun
Someone’s
daughter has left
from the boque, as
if
the fresh flowers had separated.
Loneliness
I felt
got a lot of pain
during the lone sun
with the lament of air
merged my voice of pain.
O the suffering butterflies of my whim,
my praise to you. Out from the prison of noon
and of the anxiety I am free
(and) my ideas of bloodshed
are in motion
now the pain of being lost and
the sacredness of weeping bloods of
face to face discourse and some
false prayers’ trick.
O the suffering whims and known voices
my praise to you, my tumbler
and the preserved wealth of pittiness
transferred. Now why
I am plucking the flowers of the known moments?