A portrait in dark (Sonnet 55)

Do you remember the last act of looking up at the sky  

For the trembling polka dots? Remember your last inhale of the azure?

Or do you remember the last time you made a tide with a tiny gulp of air?

When did you blow a bunch of cotton to make a white cloud for the sky?

When did you wept for the last time in front of the empty wall without knowing why?

Sleep? That’s a false dispute. Why weighty your eyelids are,

do you know the exact reason? From where did the Gulmohar

collect the color red, when did you ask it, when did you made a last cry?

You yourself cannot excavate the most secretive words anymore

you preserved for someone. What would you offer, even if he comes knocking

at your door, with a miracle? Hearing a distant echo from a remote corner

you wanted to sing a song once, where has lost the gong, why cannot you sing?

Time is no watch. Aging is not passing years. Life is not a calendar.

From when did you stop counting on the tip of fingers the days of waiting?  

Ramkinkar Baij, Portrait