One thought-

“This earth is mine.

The rocks and soil are mine.

These rivers are mine.”

And, he used a sword.

Another reckoned-

“This sky is mine.

The sun and the moon are mine.

The lightening, the rainbows are mine.”

And, he used a sword.

The swords of these two struck-

an earthquake occurred,

volcanoes erupted,

tsunami rose.

The swords of these two struck-

drought happened,

famine ensued,

starvation raged!

Earth drank blood, chewed bones.

The swords of these two struck-

the mutual hunt of tears and joy was staged,

the hen-egg conundrum was coined.

The poisonous tree of tradition and practice was planted-

in the threshold, in the precinct, in the front-yard, at the entrance,

in the eyes and the heart, one after another.

Two swords kept exchanging blows

rending the earth,

ripping open the sky.

In the end, remained – merely swords.

The war was waged with swords.

The war was waged for swords.

And so the triumph was Sword’s only.

Very urgent it is

that the Sword should rust.

But it’s a hard call to say

when the Sword will rust

For, just a while ago

yet another has laid claim to ‘that Sword.’

(Translated from the Nepali original by Roshan Koirala)