Speaking aloud, forging a path,
I am passing through, creating my own atmosphere.
Not even the stitching of a lifetime could cover me,
I remained bare, while crafting my own robe.
This is my spring, as I pass by,
Turning every dry tree into green.
Every branch continued to sway,
But the bird dried up while building its nest.
What more can happen, O Nandini, at the end of hardship?
I have shattered, while shaping my own mirror.
Even a ragtag garment of words, when stitched with care, makes a fabric of culture that holds people's thoughts together.
It is your talent to make your own atmosphere. One whose whole lifetime is a garment is able to sew expansively. But at the same time, stitching reclaim the garment of words that join our collective thoughts in purity.
The garment of nakedness comes in spring green and autumnal colors. I hope your seasons change gracefully.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
People who care about culture are always running hither and yon, stitching the cloth scraps together, because the garment is forever fraying. The fraying of the garment of culture is our shared nakedness.