Who am I, what is my individuality?
As much she thought she got perplexity?
She was a forgotten saga, or a song, unsung,
a thirsty cloud or a stream separated from ocean?
A stray lock of hair, unchained and unbounded
or a nightingale detached from its perch, astounded?
An empty envelop, unnamed and undirected
blank, barren, marooned, unowned and rejected?
Asked each passerby for her home and whereabout,
for her origin and standing, her existence in doubt.
Bearing all insults, suffered all through pain
she lived with her pride, beside all disdain.
Ah! She is now leaving, this world for eternity
this way perhaps there, she gets her identity...!