Mohan Koirala

Flower on the precipice

Upon a velvety soft bark hard done by circumstances and dust

And un-tolerated, un-withered by tenderness

An anonymous bud bursts open in a desolate country.

Emptiness robs the smile-

Beauty gets wiped out on the way;

Seasonal pleasures are scraped off by unknown hand-

An anonymous bud bursts open in desolation.

Dear, dear my greed

One who first loved the left-out friend,

One who first shepherded the cattle that got going,

Made rain shields, the country and doko¹– weaving bamboo wickers;

Who, piercing the bamboo stem with a spike, pressed the drifting voice into a flute-

Who blew with rhythm the broken voices and with lips the voices un-uttered

O pristine doctor of fresh wind, who whispers with ample heart

I love, I envy that first invention of the first day

I remember you didn’t invite me that first time you stewed nettle leaves-

So cross am I.

One who’d begun his saga from a huge cave,

So like a tender calf are you leaping in the jungle;

O dear, dear my greed, my artist par excellence

Come hither! Holding you to my bosom I want to watch

“You whistling for once sucking on raw tobacco.”

1 a kind of basket made from bamboo.They are hand-woven in a conical or “V” shape. Dokos are especially used by porters to carry goods in Nepal.