Some discontent stirs in me

At times when I walk in this campus—

Old questions I had learnt not to ask,

Old yearnings and desires,

Boomerang on me, leaving me

Seething with anger and hatred.


I look around with vague anxiety,

See the wilderness amid the urbanity—

O look at the thistle,

Sprouting out luxuriously

Like body hair after shaving,

The cctv cameras,

Dangling like pompous penises,

Tattered flags mounted on twisted flagpoles,

Waving like a drowning man’s hands,

These walls stripped naked,

Like eucalyptus leaves off its bark,

The earthquake-broken temple,

Still seeking obeisance,  

Withering like fallen pipal leaves,  

The demi-goddesses of knowledge,  

Weary and mute, like a bottlebrush tree,

Sheds muted cries.


Students who suck on beer bottles

Roll cigarettes, and watch porn at lunch breaks

Mutter red manifestos under their breath—

Never a lull in their noises.

Their blood boils,

Sweat pours off their brows,

And a long screech of Shangri-La attracts

These buildings, huddled together,

Like gourd vines—

Climbing, twining, creeping.  


There is redness everywhere—

The hush of the revolution is red,

The rage of the unknown is red,

The replica of broken slogans

Carved on the toilet walls is red:

long live deemoocraacy!

down with hypoocrissy!


All of these remind me of my broken dreams—

The way I wanted to be somewhere else,

The way I wanted to be someone else—

Every time I enter this campus of redness,

A beehive collapses in my mind,

Petrified of its drones and stings,

I sleepwalk like souls in purgatory,

While all the while my life falls into

The yawning abyss of rancor.  

An agony of doubt stings me

And a numbness pains my senses.


These buildings are dying,

Nothing will remain here in the yards,

Even these walls are sagging,

Even these bricks are unsalable.  

With redness, they thought

They had beaten the system,

Made intellectual choices—

Look how they are failing!


All that remains here

Is their rotten luxury

Of red manifestos—

One day soon will turn

Into absolute emptiness—

There will only be dung-heap

Of emptiness, plying on

More and more emptiness.


From that vast stretch

Of oceanic emptiness,

Atop that mutilated corpse

Of buildings, of streets, of courtyards,

Of red manifestos,

Inhaling the foul smell of rottenness,

I sit cross-legged,

Like some bloody Buddha,

And smile.

Bibek Adhikari

Poetry by Bibek
Read 184 times
Written on 2018-11-10 at 16:14

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Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Powerful poem which gathers steam as the stanzas progress!