Waveringly, I stare-on.
This nightmarish cloud, meant to be promising.
The gold sheet, purported, actually
wallpapered the imminent downpour.
In It's snaily tour of my sky I perceived,
an aroma of deceit.
The aroma so strong...flashed my memory
And I was four years back.
Such a discovery it was, that life rotates
and such does its events.
It had happened.
Not once, twice nor thrice.
And this shall be some pages added to
The diary of this repetitive history.
Let it not meet you unaware, for
No new lie can be born.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem