The White Palace Poem by Matrika Pokharel

The white palace
molests the youth of Helambu
every night;
takes bath in the sweats of
Kale - the blacksmith,
and Gore - a Gharti boy!
He cannot stand the talks
of sunshine in this village.
Eight years back, one day
though it was at night
the cloud unveiled its countenance, albeit a little,
the moon showed a portion of its face
and that day
the white palace
ordered curfew!

In the palace
sarangis made out of human bone
are played
at festivals and celebrations
though off the beat!
I know not if someone knows
that human blood is offered on the altar
and children's juvenile lips
are counted among delicious meals
and the palace
blushes, swimming in a pool of blood
amidst embellishments
catered by the skulls of ancestors
and the pictures of unknown meteors and comets.
Yes, that is the beauty of the palace!

In every file of the court
each of us might verify-
he has cases filed against consciousness
and prisons offer him a witness!
These days
notified for an earthquake shortly
he gawks around.
In the midst of our settlement
he exhibits strange behaviors.
Yes, he shows different demeanors.

*

sarangi: a typical Nepali harp