Before Buddha's Statue In The Rain
frozen and surging
in the middle of the street
in holiday moods
forgetting all the backlogs and files.
People-people and umbrellas
umbrellas-umbrellas and people.
These heads sheltered by umbrellas
be they of Zeb-un-Nisa, or Catherine
of Cleopatra or Fenichka
live with their own stories.
If it were not so
a little Thames could be mixed
with the Bagmati water,
a little Nile could be flown into Pikhuwa stream,
why say then Buddha never carried gun?
he didn't play piano,
we do not know of him
making pictures either.
Let us be honest
we have praised Angulimala
will make no difference
if you convey my salute to Amrapali.
I am keener on the stories of valour
washed away by this year's monsoon floods
than the abstract shapes
glued to myths, history and stories.
When this flood blocks the road
I am worried more
by my soil getting washed,
than by getting late
to reach my destination.
I fear that the floods
might flatten this hill
grips me now.
(Translated from Nepali by Abhi Subedi)
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: buddha,environment,migration,rain,spirituality