– Matrika Pokharel

He planted poetry

in a vase in the mansion

and said to me

this is how you ought to nurture

a flower to blossoms.

I showed him poems

of many hues and colours

along roadsides

on the foreyards of huts

and said

these too are beautiful verses

they too need to be cared for.

Annoyed,

he turned his head away

and made an about turn!

The next day

I looked at him

from the abode of my poetry.

He had forgotten

to water his plant in the vase.

The wilted flower

turned to me, and wept.

Two days later

with a withered flower in hand

he walked up to the roadside

looking at my garden

and asked for a live flower.

I turned him to the field

where live flowers thrived.

He gawked at them without a word.

For that, in this part of the world

I declare with pride

that though they be at a slum’s backyard

or at nooks along narrow streets

or stepped upon by the obese aristocrats

my verses are immortal

my poetry is immortal!

Translation: Mahesh Paudyal