Manprasad Subba
I found a letter in the pollens of flowers
a piece of stone, and a pinch of soil
changed into letters, coming into my hands;
kneading these letters with a sweat-drop and a teardrop,
I molded them into a word
then, I blew my breathe in,
and released it with the wave of my voice!
After escaping from me, the word became a wanderer.
It belonged to where it went, to whomever it stayed with
but it could settle nowhere.
These days, if we ever come across,
it alone knows me, but I do not.
It calls me sometimes
but its voice has changed / it keeps changing.
Once I asked it,
“Why do you loaf around this way, my word?”
It replied straightaway,
“Holy Mo! Why don’t you ever want to change?
Do you think you are a god, immune to changes?
There is pleasure in changing
There is motion, and there is life in it.
Did you get me?”