Sambandh Bhattarai
When rain had seized Kathmandu,
And the roads had turned to rivers;
The dullard buildings with their ashen chimneys,
Alone, forlorn, all shivered.
When rain had seized Kathmandu,
I was strolling outside embittered;
When like a flash of lightning and almost as frightening,
I saw two eyes that glittered.
When rain had seized Kathmandu,
The valley was flooded and fettered,
Though the winds were howling, out it came prowling,
A tiger that goldenly glimmered.
It was still when it entered,
Rain pattering down its frame;
Like a wraith the gilded creature
Glided without restrain.
Then I blinked and looked again
And saw the tiger had changed,
Not in presence or in essence
But in the manner it was present.
It stretched its feline poise
On a field of asphalt black,
Girded by slender sinews
In a pointed diadem.
But before I could take another look,
Its form I could appraise,
It revolved round a corner
And never again showed its face.
Then the clouds were torn apart
And sunlight filtered in,
But the luminescence of the daystar
Could not match the creature’s sheen.
I stood there dumb and dazed,
As if from a dream I awoke,
Back into the stained streets,
Back inside reality’s dismal cloak.
When rain had seized Kathmandu,
And my heart was left simmered;
Though the winds were howling, out it had come prowling,
The tiger that goldenly glimmered.
When Rain had Seized Kathmandu
