For Future Poem by Matrika Pokharel

As chopping boards,
they have been covering pains in smiles
for centuries.
In the chilly frost of winter
we paste on the walls of future
our hearts, bruised by snow.
Lizards under cozy quilts
are distributing dreams.
First they talk of peace
and if insatiate
talk of revolution
while in other instances
right in front of our eyes
Hitlers are engaged in secret meetings
with Gandhi's stick in their hands;
shells, that smelt in the countryside till recent times
have entered the town
and hence, news about loss of men
is not surprising anymore,
nor is the news of killing
new to this land anymore.
I am in a colony of people
who nourish cute dreams
and live with terror
conspiously displayed on their countenances.
The darkness of innumerable queries
engulf the rooms here;
one need not wait for nights
to have a touch of darkness
in the present I live at.

There are woods nearby
wherefrom carcasses start reeking
as soon as spring sets in
and when gun reports come from the woods
we mourn for the lost kinsmen.
We are witnesses-
the honors of the relatives have been forsaken;
brothers, sowing light in the field
tilled and smoothened by consciousness
are lynched forever.
At such a moment
from this colony
what can I write for you
other than slogans?
What can I make you hear?
If, inside your poetry
laden with selfish power-mongering
there is no shred of pain
at the sight of people
crushing others as though they were roads
and yet, if you claim
your verses are for beauty
I would love to write
slogans right on your eyes.

Brother porter
who bears load of salt
from Katari to Solu, far way
breaks the news aired by the radio
amid smiles.
Who doesn't know
that reading newspaper
and vacantly looking at forlorn riverbanks
is but the same, now?
One needs no time telling
if it's news or a play on the television.
With slogans that have gradually crept
into the village from the woods
trusts are shattering,
and yet, there is no meaning
of ceasing to weave dreams
at a time
when a ruler
that enters the Singha Durbar in a hearse
for fear of revolt
advertises for his own bright future;
at a time
when proposals have been made
to import foreign vultures into our forest.
As long as a dropp of blood
lasts in our bodies
we shall be fighting for future;
some of us as processions
and some as slogans
or still some others of us as poems
as though we were born to fight.
We shall always be fighting for future!

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