The Country is Not Yours
It is best to sleep, the country
Will go on and on,
Even without your awakening.
Sparrows die of broken hearts,
Their lifeless flesh hangs upside down
From telephone wires.
Swaddled in thick Kathmandu dust,
Crows struggle to breathe—
Their mouths reeking of hunger.
Face downward in the gutter,
A dog tastes the litter of democracy—
He’ll vote for his food next year.
Greasy faces wait for greasy momos
In darkening alleys; they’ll creep out
Of this valley like white disease.
Dim-witted neo-Marxists slump over
The bureaucratic endlessness, manslaughtering
The young saplings with their ideologies.
All that remains—
Suspend in the ethereal void.
For how long, will you fill your lungs
With depravity, your cells with despair?
You, who are full of ugly feelings,
Bad thoughts and disintegrated dreams,
The country can’t bear the weight
Of your cynical mind, and don’t forget—
The land is moving slowly in retrograde,
And this country is not yours.
Poetry by Bibek
Read 134 times
Written on 2018-12-22 at 10:50
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