It’s a great feeling to savour coffee sip by sip early in the morning
recalling some stanza or the other from Neruda’s poetry.
It’s like stepping into life anew that very moment.
Mind and body lighten and effortlessly mingle with the thin morning fog.
Leaves of different colours fall in every house front and form a wonderful kalamkaree.
A housewife, hand on her hip, tries to sweep drowsiness and laziness away.
Thin fog settles like kindness on plants, trees and flowers.
Perhaps everything loses its natural hardness and turns gloriously soft in the morning.
That first awakened beauty of the morning world of
           housewives, children, puppies, birds is absolutely astounding.
Having melted and letting off steam, we move about in bed delicately like warm lakes
Her hands move delicately to wash the faces of housefronts
           clean, draw a few lines of muggu and set out with a whip.
By then we would get together by the pomegranate tree,
           around a winter fire warming our hands, feet and face
and welcome fire into ourselves.
Some mother would have slit the sky with her fingertip.
Tightening its fist and crying lightly
A beautiful baby would appear over our heads.
Even if all the poets the world over wrote a poem each on the morning hour
It would still remain untouched, unsmelt, wonderful and fascinating
The entire body would reduce itself to a small poem and be moved.
Whosoever it is, he has to take a handful of water
Pay homage to life and only then move on to live.