Here was a door, above which hung the cherished beauty
of Madhobi creepers. There were flower tubs in the porch,
a three-wheeler, a green parrot screeching in its cage
by the door. Silken smoke used to climb up from the kitchen.

Someone wearing velvet, down-and-out, used to keep a pair
of his eyes gleaming very often in the dark. In the morning
someone immersed in a newspaper like a quiet globe-trotter
would suddenly look at the wall crowded with crows.    

He thought about his childhood fields, the regret of losing balls
started buzzing anew around him. Every moment he kept
losing balls, no whistle could ever stop his losses.
In the logbook of his losses, only scattered numbers danced.
 
Here was a door, above which hung the cherished beauty
of Madhobi creepers. Now here is nothing,
nothing else left here. Only a stupid wall, shell-wounded,
stands somewhat stiff, alone. Some grubby bricks
lie spread out here. On the left, you'll catch a glimpse
of a broken doll, nothing else left here other than this.
 
In the ruins, I stand still as if I myself were a sign of wreckage;
I rake at ashes with my shoe, hoping that suddenly from the ashes
would rise flapping an immortal bird, and that I might see
someone's glowing smile, blossomed affection, and love.