A translation of the poem by V. H. Ram:
My verses I wrote so long ago
That I do not know what I sang about
They were plucked off like splashes from a fountain,
Or like sparks from a raging fire
Bursting out like small devils, but in
The Sanctuary they sleep, my verses
On youth and mortality, they
Remain unread
The flaming passion of the verses lie in shops
(where none takes them and cherishes them!)
They are sparkling wine, very old
waiting for their turn to be tasted.
