From the Ashen Flatlands
All day long we watch the neglectful highway,
The once in a while rumbling of buses,
The barren hills, the ashen fields.
Stupidly puffing smoke towards the grey sky,
Yoked to the land, all day long we listen to the tiny
Tea kettle hiss its contempt, and talk, talk, talk—
About the young ones who left us to fight
Their own battles against the invincible demons
Of broken dreams, of poverty and tatters.
What can we do except pantomime
Their gentle callousness to us, to the land,
In dull mimicry, and stare vacantly to what lies ahead?
These flatlands are only the reflection of ruins,
Hungry, naked, starving, they scream their mute pain
Of being left alone, and gape at us, hollow-eyed.
Never mind the tea shacks spread along the roads,
Never mind the rusty billboards that mark the beginning
Of a new era in the history of Nepali politics.
Dispirited of smoking and drinking tea,
We rise up, weary of the light, we chew unhappiness,
We lie down, sick and tired of the night, and dream
About the misty mountains with an orange sun
Lugging above the horizon, getting some respite
From our long-standing suffering.
Poetry by Bibek
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Written on 2019-02-10 at 13:29
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