Poetry:
Bhisma Upreti
Oblivion
As I was going to pick up
The newspaper just dropped on the garden
By the young man who distributes newspapers
A quick shower carried off all the words
And with these words the news
With the news were swept away all enthusiasm, excitement
Hopelessness, anger and condolences
Like there remained only a lump of paper
Wet and without any use!
A writer
Who was once always fertile with imagination
Sunk in the abyss of oblivion
Forgetting the shape, the dance, the tune and meaning of words
And forgetting their power
Staring emptily into the vacuum.
Those hands which held the pen
I touch with compassion and respect
A life which has lost its attraction
Melancholy, deep- like the clouds which cover the azure sky
Green leaves which have stopped growing
Colorful flowers which have stopped sprouting
Birds too which have stopped singing perched on branches
Unseen by all who are too busy running the rat race of life
The writer, poor thing
Like a dead old tree barely not on the ground.
Translated from Nepali by Sarthak Karki
