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Unable to sleep, with my unwritten poems swimming in my head
And waiting for my body to succumbed, I waited for someone
To give me company, and came Thangjam Ibopishak,
With one his innocuous poems, about a lucky blouse
And his poems; all proud and ready to confess...
Why he chose his wife’s chest to write in poems
And why he can’t buy a decent cloth for her!

He said, ‘Very soon, his poems will be in market.’ And
He left in hurry leaving me an advice, ‘Don’t write poems. Instead,
Carve statues of woman. They sell in good price.’
With my marriage looming, I am thinking of my nights
And my wife, with her chest all smeared with inks!
No, I don’t know how she will like it. But for Ibopishak,
And his advice, I think, he is right, at least to me.
And I know nothing, except writing poetry.
Pity on her!