The flowers in their baskets
do not smell of crisp books
or rhymes that sing of flowers of freedom.
Pale as pulp of their wiped out eyes
these are stones of destiny
heavy from watery weight of their juvenile dreams
sharp and brash
as the stones of bleeding mule paths
tearing a wound with
face of a stifled cry
in murky skies of their fast fading infancy.
Translated from the Nepali by Yuyutsu Sharma
Laxmi Lekali
sister of our butchered dreams
Laxmi Lekali
the foolish cops who conspired
to dictate awe of your slogans
who plotted to smash the heightened pagodas
of your integrity
knew very little about consequences
of raping the urge of a flame.
Laxmi Lekali
the fragrance of your simmering sighs
tickles the battered
flowers drying in the books of my anguish.
Laxmi Lekali
the urine that they forced you to drink
has erupted ulcers
of rage on my quaking shoulders.
Laxmi Lekali
raped daughter of our hungry huts,
forgive me,
my verbal revenge isn't enough
to remove leeches
of insult clung to your breasts.
forgive me,
rods of despotic boorishness
they thrust in to your private parts
have caused a crack in my skull.
Laxmi Lekali
I roam victorious
in the charred streets
of this city seething from
the scourge of your courses.
Laxmi Lekali
yours are the waves of milk
Laxmi Lekali
even the earth shook droplets of terror
to see the forced
nightmare of that monstrous orgasm.
Doom is the word
doom of someone who having raped
a complete little supernova
waits like some infested gorilla
for its lethal aftermath.
You my victorious Muse
my Laxmi Lekali,
your shrieks made
shimmering fishtail of Machhapuchhre shiver,
crevice torn open
by insane barrel of the gun,
a splash of blood
gushed forth and spread
like some violent energy
in the victorious skies of my smoldering eyes.
Translated from the Nepali by Yuyutsu Sharma
From the porous ground
of a savage slope
ravaged by a landslide
they watch visitors
coming up the hill paths
like clouds rushing up
through the green folds of mountains
to race over the hunger of their huddled huts.
From the rickety shacks
of their makeshift schools
they wait for a guardian angel,
an evangelical promise, an official from an INGO
or a promise of a new God, an ideologue
or a Government official on a broomstick
to glide them through the famished skies of their wailing valleys.
Like spiders moving up
to possess the fragrant body of a white lotus
later in their sleep they will meet other visitors,
the gorillas of famed names and stenguns
pulling them from their black hair
to hurl these heroes into furious scripts
of epic battles in the name of charting
a course for a new nation already looking like
a delta of splattered blood vessels.
Translated from the Nepali by Yuyutsu Sharma
In the hands
of a black night
severed head
of a young Buddha
trying
to read its pallid
face's expression
in the pool of blood
shining
like a magical mirror
near its speechless torso.
Translated from the Nepali by Yuyutsu Sharma