Mere actors on the stage of life we are, the bard wrote Let us rage against the dying of the light Dylan Thomas aptly put. The dying of youth is also to be raged and not forgotten It is to be remembered to die is not equal to being forgotten. Death does not kill the contentment earned and peace gathered Mirror of survival is its opposite if not shattered. What dies and what lives is a like moment of recognition. Some gather public fame after their death, In condolences, talks and remembrances about them. Death isn’t a mere oblivion— It is a sum of life for the rest of the rested life. Death does not end the legacy of a believer It transpires the journey of life like undisturbed ripples. Our political leaders invite death of sold dreams With foreign remittances Where followers of destiny bring coffin to life. Our youths returning home in coffin from foreign country Is invited death, a weak compulsion. Many cross seven seas to enable their family to live through The seventh day of a week. Death is kept busy in its worldly attire when wandering soul Rummages for its life abroad. When language is dead literature thrives with blood. Death is a color of chaos; Sometimes death is measured When lives have to be tamed for survival. Death is a melting point; It can be your limit of over-looking horizon. Death is a powerful sunya For every manifestation and success is supremely alive before Being judged in the life taking court of death. Death is a blink of an eye and comes slow to some When the circle of life meets and ends. Does death complete a life when the circle of life ends? Death is the silence of the voice. In the snow of beauty lies the daggers of deadly ice. Life is to be choosed from the closet of death. Script every nuance to dance with the force of life, Heal the death of soul before forsaking the gift of life.
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2. Air of War
My cap is the snow Of the mighty mountain. I see it is melting gradually. My golden crown is rusty now The gold has been worn out And only the yellow remains. I hear the flowing river weeping And the tears keep boiling. There is a war in the world Now blowing in the air. I am trying to not mix the air of war With the air that I inhale. The air of war has blown like storm And uprooted tiny budding dreams The fresh minds are shattered And also, the strongest bonds Disobey the vows of humanity. Many will be left homeless Hungry and scorching roofless sun Sucking them dry and Making them insensitive to life.
[Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has published three books of poetry namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021) and Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021). Sushant has been published in places like The Gorkha Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Piker Press, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Impspired, Harbinger Asylum, New York Parrot, Pratik Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Atunis Poetry, EKL Review, The Quiver Review, Dissident Voice, As It Ought To Be Magazine and International Times among many.]
