Having turned into uprooted settlements
of Koilabaas, dilapidated shacks
lie scarred and shattered.
The festering ledge of the familiar buildings
have started decaying, the spiders have
started shitting in famous flags
and in kitchens the chameleons
have started wriggling like insolent outlaws.
This is what remains of a war gone astray.
The cows snapping the tether
have begun to run off
and wild beasts from the nearby forests
have started gathering in the cowsheds…

In one circle, there’s a rain of yummy dishes,
in the other rotting flour is being sprinkled
in the waters  boiling in the pans on famished hearths.
In villages, frail fingers are mustering
strength to clutch morsels of buckwheat,
in cities, new fingers are fast fattening
and with their new found silver spoons
stirring the spicy mushroom curries cooking on electric stoves.

That’s what remains of a war gone astray.
The ants have started dying
and the dragons are ready to celebrate
the victory in their comfort zones…

John of Arcs are looking for some deserted hill ranges
and in rivers newly mingled waters
from  little creeks have rendered the verses
of Netra Abhagi worthless, Lucy Grays been
snuggled in the blankets of wild winds,
lost bundles buried beneath
the heaps of jubilant vermilion powders.
Such is result of a war gone astray.
The pride to own a piece of land
has rushed Alexander atop Sagarmatha
to shout marathon proclamations.

Caterpillars are threatening with
the curse of turning everyone into their own avatars
and non-believers are being hit
by the firecrackers of a porcupine’s needles.
Has anyone witnessed a scene
where the dead ones go feasting
on the funeral of  the dead.
The possessor of new coats have started
pinning plastic flowers in the buttonholes
and the Daman flowers lie crushed
under the weight of invisible pagodas of fresher suppressions.

Such is turnout of a war gone astray.
This race is hotter than burning tar,
like ruthless hearths that specialize in burning hearts.
The failed Jakirs have received VC medals
and the airs are ranting from
the laments of brave glorious warriors.
The ones wearing heads of sacrificial buffaloes
know what a bliss such a war is.
But to the ones carrying human heads
on their torsos, this is more poisonous than hemlock.
Such is result of a war gone astray…

Translated from the Nepali by Yuyutsu Sharma