By Hem Bishwakarma
Crawling from the east
Catching a shawl of a hill
The sun had to wave its red hands
Along the kitchen, courtyard and turmeric shrubs
The rainbow had to spread
Over my country’s map
The age of the sun needed to mount
But my country could not be springtide
The sprouts had to cling on banyan trees
The jests of farm-workers had to be penned
The morning like a cuckoo had to appear
The green sindoor had to fall on the lawn’s hair-parting
However,
This time too
A handful of an old age was left at a terrace
The kitchen garden yielded only some green passports
The cold dropped off quivering the pigeon’s hearts
My country could not be springtide.
I had a wish that
The flowers would sing in a single melody
The deep-slept cloud would awake for a moment
Fireflies would glossily illuminate as hopes do
Opportunities would appear on jackfruit trees!
But I am sorry,
This time
My country could not be springtide.
[Hem Bishwakarma is a Nepalese poet and translator. He has many poems and translations published nationally and beyond the borders to his credit.]