Little did we know that there could be such fire
on ice-capped mountain top till you fell off the gliding skis
and I lifted you up to the bare bold rock for a little rest
before we resumed skiing down to the tent at Sonmarg's waist
where the logs had caught fire in the heat of wheels skidding on ice,
the boughs of Alpines shook in the whirl of a rain-storm
and flowers in the meadows looked aghast at the maelstrom-
of smokes being silenced by the rain of snow on the leaking roof;
we were pure drops of rain then on rocks bathing in pure bliss,
butterflies stuck to petals in frenzied kiss;
peacocks came out of some secret caves pacing the rocks
to dance tearing themselves to fine shreds,
as peahens cried in ecstasy of union on emerald slopy beds
our wetted ponies at a distance neighed out in fun
waiting to take us back down the slushy trail to the common run.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem