An Anthology of Contemporary Nepali Poetry



Bal Bahadur Thapa



Demigod




Let's kneel down on our knees
Let's pray in unison
Let's sing His victory
Our Hero is here.  

We are born sinners:
We need a Demigod
who bears our sins 
offering His own blood. 

We are dreamers:
We need a Demigod
who lives our dreams
killing His own.

We are lazybones:
 We need a Demigod
whose middle name is work,
work is what He lives for.

We are Lilliputians:
We need a Gulliver,
who complements our smallness
smallness that berates us.
 
We are ignoramus:
We need a Demigod,
who burns himself 
to show us the way.
 
A pack of hyenas we are;
We need a Demigod
whose innocence cloaks
the shrills of our shrewdness.
  
Why bother becoming like Him?
He is already there for us.
We are free people
with no responsibility. 

We need a Demigod:
A Savior, a Guru
A Scapegoat, a Martyr
Just sing His victory!




Mother, will the sun rise, again?




When the sun rose early this morning,
the dew shone like diamond,
the fishtail peak turned golden,
the foggy sky turned blue.

When the sun went high in the sky,
the doves, sparrows and nightingales chirped
darting from one tree to another;
the forest surrounding the village
came alive with the ditties of shepherds, woodcutters,
and grass cutters mingled with the bellowing of the cattle;   
we played dandi biyo, and kabaddi in the terraced paddy field 
waiting to be tilled in the upcoming summer;
we put the monkeys to shame 
while showing off our tree climbing feats;
we drank fresh water smelling off raw earth
cupping it with our tiny hands from a spring;
we gorged on chutro, myal, yam, aiselu, and khalluk
 when our stomach growled with hunger;
we watched the bulls incensed with fierce fury
locking their horns in the golden pastureland;
we watched the young lads and lasses 
bursting into their natural talents 
of singing and dancing together 
under shade of a big Peepal tree;
as curious and naughty as we are,
we peeped into the thick bushes 
where two heaving naked bodies,
chiseled and glistening with sweat,
 were entangled as if they were one;
holding our liver into our mouth and 
listening to the pounding of our little hearts,
we relished the show feeling somewhat
uneasy between our trembling legs.

When the sun was hiding itself 
behind the dark hills in the west,
the forest froze like a corpse
as all the people and cattle returned home
dreaming to return to their pleasure dome next day; 
but we overheard the melancholic lads and lasses:
"They are cutting down all trees to build a big cement factory." 

When the sun was swallowed by the night,
the icy wind drilled through our bone,
we huddled together around the hearth
rubbing our eyes streaming with tears
as the frozen firewood was bursting with smoke;
a vague fear had seized our heart:
our pleasure dome would fall apart
breaking our hearts, breaking our hopes;
we're mourning the tragedy in advance
as if we are facing our doom's day.
Fighting tears back, I asked my mother:
"Mother, will the sun rise, again?"