Some words are roaming in the dark in foreign lands,
some flying in the wind,
some words are trapped under stones,
some floating away in the river,
burning, some words are falling silent.

Hemlata,
you gave me your word, I haven’t given you mine, yet,
but I haven’t given up
hope, yet.

I haven’t stopped dragging that illusory net of infatuations
through wind water fire day and night; if I find those rhyming words,
I’ll give them only to you. Hemlata,
don’t break our home, just yet.
Be patient, I beg you, grant me the alms of just a few more years.