Poetry:
Keshab Sigdel
A Story of the Time
The time asked a question—
Who are you
whetting a sword
ahead of the prayer assembly
in the monastery?
This might be a question against the civilization
Or,
The story of the time itself.
***
Questions are nothing in themselves
Unless somebody else values it as such
Or deems appropriate to respond to it
They shall otherwise just remain
The grievances of time
Sighed by mistake.
That question
Stayed in the air for a moment.
The question was not merely a question
But like a satire against the time itself
Like an effigy prepared to be burnt in the protest rally
Like an ironic grinning
Or like a puzzle than only a question
It remained in the sky
Inviting new more questions.
***
Nearby the monastery
A monk whetting the edge of his sword
Raises slowly
As if crushed by a heavy responsibility
And to examine the sharpness of the sword’s edge
Moves the tip of his thumb down towards the base.
As if he was ascertained
He throws his gaze in all direction of the monastery
And as if the monastery and he himself
Were both safe
As if the prayer assembly
That was to begin soon in the monastery
Was secured against all the odds
That monk inhales a long breath of satisfaction,
Keeps that whetted sword in the scabbard
And goes to join the prayer assembly.
***
This monk
Is the story of the time we live
And the questioner time
Itself the narrator of that story!
Translation: Poet Himself
