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Waiting For The Blooms

After a period of chill and dampness,
of stasis and stagnation,
a pathless run in the wilderness,
shoes worn to shreds, and feet bleeding,
shadow raising its hood,
dreams turning into nightmare,
gloom and anguish invading hearts,
green leaves turning brown,
colours fading into paleness,
the earth, shrunk with cold, lying mute,
and soaking in tears,

I followed a trail of light
and came out waiting to see
the buds opening to the sky
and flowers blooming.
I am amidst a massive throng here.
Butterflies in a great splurge
are flitting about in wait.
Bees are humming in a constant buzz.
A moment ago flocks
of humming birds flew past me
and are perching on the branches
of the nearby peepal trees.

I can hear the drone of yearning here,
the drone echoing from the plains
through the white peaks of the Himalayas :
Yearning to see sprouting flowers;
yearning to see the daylight blessing them.
But the buds wouldn't grow;
won't wear the ribbons of red petals
on their heads and sway in the breeze.

They stand glumly.
And this crushing delay is gnawing at us.
Hasn't the soil recovered from the sickness yet?

Poetry by Mukul Dahal
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