Jagat Nabodit
With every moment of time
the robust Dharhara of our faith is crumbling;
the flame of terror
is spreading to the hapless village;
in that case how can we remain composed
when the Sagarmatha of unity is collapsing
In the past years
we sowed in our fields the seeds of riots
in it, all that grew were beads of tears,
in our garden too
nothing but blossoms of tears sprouted;
our helpless smiles
have aborted before taking a shape;
those who could claim the citadel of power
made horses of the meek cows
and ensured themselves winners
by murdering people like themselves
while some devilish murderers
are masquerading to be good in disguise
Oomph!
Those who show the head of a goat
and sell the flesh of dogs
are soiling trade;
there are a few who prostrate in front
and hide knives under the armpits,
humanity emanates a foul smell;
there’s a crowd of those who drink beer
and mention of drinking water in their reports;
irregularities flow from every corner
those who love to fish
making the river turbid
too are seen quite active;
politics has been stripped naked
on the streets
We the donkeys
walked across generations
taking our lot as predestination
allocated by destiny;
we scaled this bank, bare foot
with load of debt on our back;
we walked with burden of sorrows
believing that labour would lead to happiness.
However, the wilful time
went past us trampling upon our dreams;
it went, adding worries
upon us, who were sleeping covered with worries
and on top of that
it went away, putting a ban
on our right to breathe.
What didn’t we do in this land
to change the colour of such a time?
Sometimes, we languished in dark dungeons
with hands bound by manacles;
we also abandoned homes and families
and lived as exiled woodmen.
What to talk of sacrifice!
We chose martyrdom, sacrificing our lives.
Where did the worth of our blood flow?
Where did the recognition of our sweats go?
Have accounts of our lives been maintained?
We the donkeys
are doomed to be born with burden
and die with burden in this land.
In this nation, cursed by a sati
we must now tear into bits
the pages of our wrong history;
we are determined to writing a new version of it
we, the donkeys labouring for ages
have taken to the streets today
together with our loads.
Khotang
Presently: Staffordshire, UK