By Haribhakta Katuwal
Followed by the curiosity of self-quest,
my heart, tortured by the chilly dooms of loss,
can think of no poems anymore.
It is perhaps for these reasons
O verdant Sungava,
my mind is full of the somber faces
not of yours,
but of those old, gentle folks
who went home last evening with empty pails
after a long, tedious standing of several hours
on the queue for kerosene.
If I were,
not a poet but kerosene that could fill those pails,
it would be far better.
I could cook a meal in a home in my country,
I could lighten the distressed face of an old person.
But Sungava!
I became a poet,
who clung to your smiles alone,
and failed to solve a single problem of my nation.
Trans: Mahesh Paudyal
[Haribhakta Katuwal (b. 1935) is a poet and lyricist. Though born in India, he passed must of his productive days in Nepal, before returning to India never to return. Many of his poems and songs have settled down as aphorisms in the memory of Nepali audience. Yo Jindagi Khai Ke Jingadi, Purna Kiran, Bhitri Manchhe Bolna Khojchha (collection of poems), Badnaam Mero Aankhaharu (Poems and songs), Sudha (short epic), Spastikaran, Eitihasik Katha Sangraha (collection of stories) Samjhana (collection of songs), Ma Mareko Chhaina (play); editing of Abhivyakti, Mukti, Himalaya, Pragya, Himani, Sangit Sarita, and translation of Charitrapaath are his seminal works. He died in Assam state of India in 1980.]