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

He said, ‘Very soon, his poems will be in market.’ And
He left in a hurry, leaving me with some advice: ‘Don’t write poems. Instead,
Carve statues of women. They sell at a good price.’
With my marriage looming, I am thinking of my nights
And my would-be wife, with her chest all smeared with ink!

No, I don’t know how she will like it. But for Ibopishak,
And his advice, I think, was right, at least to me.
And I know nothing, except writing poetry.
Pity her!