When father grows old,
His stick does not support him
The father is helpless,
His all dreams are broken into pieces.
The stick father wants to use in his future,
Now, it is stumbling every moment,
Which he crafted with sweet dreams,
but the strength of stick is getting weaker day by day.
How can the father go ahead without his stick?
When his all bones are contracted,
the wrinkles on his face sprouting,
and the knees have lost their lives at this stage.
Father's days are numbered now,
He wants to see his stick,
but the stick is lost forever.
Father's eyes are closed now,
Lying without his breath on the bed,
where he made his lovely stick
with his delicate hands
The fingers held the stick now are lifeless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem