When you arrive, I forget my years,
And turn once more to childhood cheers.
No one knows, nor can we see,
Who loves more— its you or me. (1)
With folded hands, I offer still,
A life that holds no golden thrill.
Yet if you smile at lines I weave,
This gift is yours, you do believe. (2)
My poetry's no rarest, crimson bloom,
No fragrant flower in perfume.
But faith it holds, sincere and true,
And that alone is its reverence due. (3)
A simple wreath, a fleeting grace,
In your hearts it seeks a place,
You know too well, and so do I,
A tender heart can only try. (4)
Small is my world, a narrow path,
A little hope is my dreamy bath,
A simple bed, a wish so small,
A life of sighs and thoughts of all. (5)
by Lalatendu Kabi 2025-02-05
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem