Bhuwan Dhungana
On a small
rectangular mat,
I am searching for the map of the country
somewhere, seeking a definition.
Life too is an art;
I have mastered the art too
and am living,
seeking a definition of living.
I know,
though, I know
that a rhododendron is red
but I know too, no blood oozes out of them
a mountain stands for snow,
cold; it does not scorch though.
Somewhere, the heart has burnt,
and blood has spilled
there also is a little selfishness
defined in the definition of the nation.
Or, for one who has a little selfishness,
that little selfishness itself
is the definition of the country.
That is the country;
that alone is the country.
Translated by Mahesh Paudyal
