Kusum Gyawali
Cherishing romantic and imperial dreams,
scaling the cliffs of hardship
some new Ghale men
from dark and wheatish-fair Liglig
have come running all the way
and have landed in North America
Pulling the iron-cart of circumstantial obligation
across the wash-basin of a canteen
or the blazing kiln of a tandoor
they are looking for a crevice fringe
wherefrom, they could commence again
yet another run for a lasting history
Alas, they have no road
to trample their feet upon, demanding their recognition;
there’s no state for them to threaten
with a disgraceful demand
at the provocation of a neighbour;
there’s no union that calls for a strike
to procure payment without work.
in their pockets, all they have is a pointed nose
all blunted;
yet, there is no non-governmental smithy
where they could sell it.
For the runners of yester years
no sound of footstep is left now;
the new Ghale, like a disqualified guerrilla,
remains shut in a cantonment,
drinking the extract of his dead-dreams
a ‘cell’ wine
from the stale cups of revolution
As he hurried out of home
he forgot, for once
to blow the leaf-pipe on the slop
to whistle away to the hills
or to wait for Soltini at deurali;
as for his old Bang
he is either left back in the village
or in the ship bound for Malaysia;
Valorous Ghale
who ran into the battlefield with a scabbard devoid of khukri
is at loss now
at the eastern shore
near the Tomb of Five
You were right
in leaving a mark on the debenture;
the new Ghale shall return tomorrow
bearing on his chest
fair Ligligs of experiences
he shall come running all the way
and teach to his kids
how they ought to run to become kings
in the open field of the republic
(Trans: Mahesh Paudyal)
[Kusum Gyawali is a Nepali poet and storywriter based in Alberta, Canada.]