The poetry from my book
abducted by the terror
to spin its rhymes
into the gust of
Rolpa and Rukum,
where the soaring throb
of my nation veils
the soul of every realm.

An intolerable agony?

Burned to ashes are
Birkhe, a suspected maoist cadre,
shut in an encounter?
Surke, an army officer,
who expired in a landmine?
Maya, a little village girl,
breathes her last,
stupidly playing with bomb
like a hand ball in the field.

Are all ashes silvery?

Confined in the lonely cell
for so many days
with endless tortures
for dressing every word
of my poetry in every means,
but depicted the imagery or
allegory or simile or metaphor,
never surrendered in futility
though it rambles like a whore
across every mind to fulfill
the emptiness of its craving..

Beyond the poetry in my book
is the groaning voices
in a drunken stupor
emerging from the nearby tavern
opened till the dead night.

January 24,2005

by Pushpa Ratna Tuladhar

Other poems of TULADHAR (40)

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