Her face was wrinkled, her hands coarse,
Her blonde hair was cut into fringes, her voice was hoarse
But there seemed something, something about Mrs. Routher.
Not the grey locks, the stammer and stutter,
There was something, something about Mrs, Routher.

She sat at the village junk shop, night and day,
Her face seemed gloomy; but made mine gay.
Whenever she looked at me, she smiled a dry smile.
There seemed something; beautiful and vile.

Perhaps I will never understand what it is,
That had taken away her bliss.
For now, there is no dry smile to see,
Because Mrs. Routher is not between you and me.

I passed the thronging Gariahat market each day,
There were quite a few comrades on that very road; but only one seemed acquainted to me
A florist; whom I would survey.
He held a basket of red, lucid, hibiscus flowers as I could see for wee.

The drastic smile reminded me of old Grand-dad.
The alluring gleam in his hazel eyes remarked despondency.
I wanted to confide to the hard working lad,
That he isn't alone, and sing him a strain, melancholy.

His smile was blemished.
His bony hand could not hold the basket for a prolonged time,
And I thought his wounds must be replenished.
My contemplative eye would be abstracted by the tram's chime.

Once, on the night of May
When I thought he was endowed with glee,
To him, I lost my way
For sleeping pills vanquished me.

I stood there like a woebegone,
In reminiscence of my inamorato
As the funeral carriages were drawn,
I weeped while that naked smile on me, would bestow.