Bimarsha Dahal



The garden was in glee

In mirth were the bumblebees

None knows what came about in suddenness—

The gardener stopped showing up;

The flowers became captives.


Leaving behind a  sad cadence,

The bumblebees went away

To make another garden their resort.


Far away, in a crevice on a coffin

The familiar portrait of the gardener

Lies pasted


From his neck, there hangs a garland,

Made from the same flowers, now devoid of life.







My being somber

Is no guarantee to everyone’s wellbeing.


Leaving behind the lamp at home

As I tried to get hold of the far-off moon

I happened to force a separation

Of the tears from the eyes.





A Poem


In the past,

When we possessed by an awareness

Of a love-laden touch

Inspiring a brand new creation

We got it arrayed on a paper

And named it a ‘poem’.


These days

We pick a gush of rage

From the newspapers

And force-land it on a page

And give it a fake name: ‘Poem’!