Krishna Bhushan Bal
Which wind blew me off? I am floating on water like a turf.
Which swift flood carried me off? I am hurled, looking at my kiths.
Why do I need a wave; a small current can sweep me away
anyone can hook me on the throat; why does one need a net.
Yet, the black, plotting hands are bent on smothering the neck,
and yet, some eyes have risen to make them hills, and dig tunnels out.
I know not in which garden my flowers could be stuck, eating the
drought!
Nor do I know, along which trail my meek eyes could be trolling,
missing the main route!
I know not how long I am doomed to remain exiled this way.
A stone rolled downhill could at least get a hooking place;
this is heart, soft after all; where could it find a resting place?
Trans: Mahesh Paudyal