Poetry:
Haribhakta Katuwal
Me, a Poet
After the impatience of searching for the own self
my heart, a victim of dull frailty of losing it
does not want to think poetry, at this instance;
perhaps for the reason, Sungava; that
that dreary face of that old man, who even after
standing on a long queue for hours, yesterday evening
had returned home with empty can of kerosene: is playing
in my eyes, instead of your smile.
It would have been better,
if I were not a poet but kerosene, that could be
filled inside that container;
I could get engulfed for one night, for
one meal in one house of my country;
I could be able, to make
an old man’s saddened face brighten.
But, Sungava!
I happened to be a poet, who is
never able to solve any problem of this country
but entangled, always
only into your smile.
Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel
