The torn paper was pleading me
To write poetry on it,
I was ready to write,
But they all prevented me saying
That it was an ominous piece,
So I stopped, unwillingly though.
That night the tattered paper came in my dream,
It accused me with tears in its eyes,
As I did not depict poesy on it,
But I could do nothing then,
I only apologized.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem