Right then
the truth is slain
When evidences are gathered

In my name
Some one else slaughters my love and my dream
Some one cuts my heart out of my
And throws it away
On my death warrant
Some one forges my signature
But when evidences are gathered
These crimes aren’t crimes at all

After evidences are arranged
The form of object can easily be changed
As a sheet of white paper can be painted
by any colours you like

A poet can’t own his poetry
And an artist his art
Nither a peasant can have a piece of land
Nor a patriot his country
The possession of the things of our own
shifts to the feet of the fake master
As cuckoos migrate in the spring

Poets, Artists
Tenants, Patriots
Policemen, Journalists
Doctors, Lawyers, Justices
All await the truth
attending its funeral at the cremation spot.

Translated from Nepali by Binod Bikram KC

About Me

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Manbu-6,Gorkha, Kathmandu, Nepal
Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people. - Adrian Mitchell