By Suvanga Parajuli
I was his discovery,
or a prize perhaps
It was then
when I was swimming in the bluest of the skies
after the clouds eloped with wind
he saw my wings
Before she pushed me out of the nest
to fly in the wilderness of a jungle
to fly in the depth of the sky
my mother had told me:
my wings were the bravest of all
My wings were the bravest of all
therefore, they were the most beautiful ones
wearing a murmur full of restless melody
just like a curious kid down there in the streets
a kid who has never run out of her curiosity
a kid who has never grown up
and a kid who will never grow up
at least in my lifetime
all that
my mother had told me
Then he saw my wings
and in a second
in a flap of wings
he fell in love with them
no, it was not an infatuation of a chick
nor was it an obsession of a cockatiel
it was the love
my cousin nightingale sang of
it was the love
madmen like Rumi wrote about
With that very love
he clipped my wings
his touch was so gentle
that it paralyzed my body
striking me with an ounce of awe
and an ounce of shock
Now they lie there—
the wings my mother gave me
in a corner of a high wall framed
in a golden frame
now they lie there
my wings
the trophy of my beloved
And I still dream of flying
for I am the same curious kid
who has never grown up
nor has run out of her thirst
or perhaps
I am
still that hatchling in the nest above
naked
with eyes closed and mouth open.
[Suvanga Parajuli is Second Secretary at Nepal’s Permanent Mission to the United Nations.]