A Letter

Our mood is fine, of your own do write.
Write of ships gone asleep
At the bottom of the sea,
Of turmoil the journey entails,
Of itch and thud it contains.

Of God's death, write,
And what to his saints has happened,
How those saints have fared,
At whose hands, has God then died.

Butchers of language and feelings,
Who at each others' throat had got,
Of them, who came out the conqueror,
Do at the earliest, write.

Write if those marauders are under arrest,
At whose hands our nation's tongue,
Has got so much defiled,
Through whose parole, it to chaff is consigned.

Write if water's urge to ebb
In floods is swept or preserved,
Our mood is fine, of your own do write.

Translated by Tejwant Singh Gill