Mayawati!
There are still thousands of ways in this city; there are travelers,
But by no means do you have footwear footprint.
Here I am a regular beggar like a road beggar.
In this town there is no scratch on your blue sari,
There is no colorful bracelet; There are no black frame glasses.
.
Mayawati!
In this town, the trees still fall down in the forest,
But there is not even a single glow of your smile here.
Here I am like a fennel cloud.
I do not have a hand in my hand in this city,
There is no red-black tip; Perfumes do not have a strong smell.
.
Mayawati,
There are still numerous poems written in this town,
But no one would write a single poem for me.
Here I am like the last bit of Simanta Katakara-like rough.
You do not have a soft lap to keep your head in this city,
There is no angry anger; There is no boiling basket.