Not bothered by the dust

Nor any complaints with grief

No one comes to even wonder

There isn’t even a pretty woman at the counter!
 

This is our hardware shop

Wheels, whirls, pans, spades, shallow – deep – wide iron bars, 

Plastics, rubbers and aluminium are sold here

We also have ropes, shackles and locks

Hand – pump pipes, pliers, motors to draw water

And parts of pump-sets are also kept by us

Beautiful, glossy and that which you call 

The lightening- flash of the infinite

Nothing of that sort is here with us
 

There is no greenery

And there is nothing in red, yellow, rosy and gold

Black, bitter and dirt- colored is all that there is

Butterflies don’t meander here

Nor can one listen to songs of eternity 
 

There is no scent here either

The only breeze that lingers here 

is the one that blows out of its own accord

No specially composed thought occurs either

It is , what it is.

Well dressed and beautiful customers often don’t visit our shop

And if anyone passes by, they disappear without entering

As if they all yearn to say – in this gorgeous marketplace, why does your disgust exists! 

What is this tall – crooked – bizarre strange thing hung here!

This is a chain of iron

It is rough, it is thorny and barbed 

And should it ever unwind, it isn’t easy to control

You must be aware that iron does not relinquish its throne easily

Just like we do not 

We bring the entire market’s moroseness

Into our shop

The tailor’s , the jeweller's, the sweet vendor’s , the beautician’s, the clothier’s

The solitary silence of everybody’s behind 

Enters our place to reside peacefully 

We accommodate everyone’s nonchalance here

Within these crooked colourless containers,

Within these shredded stretched-out shapeless sacks

There is a lot that is still kept inside them

If you come by in your spare time, we will reveal it all