Refined smoke of stove is floating
touching the thatched roof of corrugated tin-shed;
I’m living, as if, confined in a steam-house. Patient.
In this morn slight pain of disease
seems to be pleasant,
which has ensconced me.
I wish I could woke you up by a single call, exactly
in this morn of early summer!
You aren’t in the vicinity
Neither in the field of messenger
nor in reality —
But in my remembrance
I’m recollecting your presence
Akin to a forgotten river
In the bank of which I used to sit on with silent pleasure.
Now in the creepy winter
I’m again listening those lost bits of moments of the river.