Kathmandu Post


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Poetic license

SEP 14 - Death tomorrow

After the rain ceases to drop

Its drumming sobs

From that surgically opened sky

Beautifully cut, memories fly like angry butterflies,

An old man knocks heaven’s door

Angels verify his past via their own search site,

The road is muddy and indiscreet  

Trapping feeble footprints,

I cannot trace her mad moves

The air of Kathmandu is vibrant

Acoustic colours and I almost signal the end of a century,

Clouds surround me like bad spirits

Wanting to consume everything,

The earth saddens

Flowers bend down in despair

Rocks crumble

At the coming of uninvited death,

I stare at the tired eyes of my mother

I tell her to wait for a while,

I tell her to wait for a while.

Rain weeps in my sleepy ears.

Four separate taps

Somewhere in Nepal

At an unknown village

At the water taps

Where the water oozed

To quench the thirst of villagers

Four separate taps

Stand parallel

Bearing four marks of castes—higher to lower—

Water too must be amazed and confused

To be divided,

It must be painful for the fountain to see

How proud humans manage to diversify water!

I too want to have four separate taps

One for politicians—

So that they dare not poison me with their corruption

Second for citizens—

So that they dare not brainwash me with their surname

Third for foreigners—

So that they dare not buy me with their projects, donations and funds

Fourth for unknown citizens—

So that they dare not steal my citizenship

I too want to have all these four taps

At my unknown home

Somewhere in Nepal

So that I too can be like these people-




The slum dweller

Its soul is rich, untouched glory,

The expedition undone, a world unexplored.

The jewels of earth walking proudly on gold-sprinkled roofs

Naked boys thronging untouchable commuters,

Scornful smiles abound.

God exalts it, they neglected apparently,

Changing chagrin for a plume of breath

I’m made the collector of breaths.

Emptied jars occupy these trivial hands

Plundering the breaths

A new civilization begins.

This civilisation’s got no language, culture, rituals

Poverty is everything to it.

A building built on the rooftop

Attracts scores of slum dwellers

Leading them to richness for good, it thinks.

A glorious light bursts

Ending the fairy tale, dreams dreamed,

Bagmati River gives an electric shock on the unconscious chest

The slum dwellers breathe again.

The city goes featureless.

Budhathoki is the author of the poetry collection Edge


Posted on: 2012-09-15 08:56

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