Desert My Pasture Poem by Hem Raj Bastola

In search of the grass
Far away from home
And the distant homeland
It is the pasture now I reach,
Loud smile of the sun
A noise in the desert left.

Hands are my sickles they must cut,
Sand is the grass I have to trust
Compulsion that all its journey lead
It is the hunger I have to feed.

It is the far cry memories miss
A tender breeze of mountain seek
Berating me that you do not hate
color of the geography now I can taste
Sweat of my salt is flooding a lot
It is not me only belittle not.

Hands are my sickles they must cut,
Sand is the grass I have to trust
Compulsion that all its journey lead
It is the hunger I have to feed.

Drinking the drought
Where my courage take strength
In the face of happiness
Where embedded pain
It's all the need trailing to bread
passion to my poetry still not dead.

Hands are my sickles they must cut,
Sand is the grass I have to trust
Compulsion that all its journey lead
It is the hunger I have to feed.