Trails - Iii Poem by Matrika Pokharel

Jackals in white dresses
are forwarding proposals
for animal husbandry;
owls, safe in tree holes
are distributing dreams
of national reconstruction.
Chewing betel
the crowd is, as ever, clapping
and I observe the cruel reality
from behind
and caress myself, front and back.
Nearby, a few yards away
a victor stands on the chest of a warrior
hit by a bullet, and fallen aground;
his gun ready, he is demanding
all powers of the morrow!
The charioteers I am looking for
are at the main road
I shout to them
with the best of my might
but why?
Yes, on the edge of the road are they
the charioteers I seek for!
They are fit
to walk along this route
and yet, they are on the edge.

Standing on the fringe of the road
they showed me a way
that moved ahead
and said
how is this road?
They didn't praise the road
as do leaders at election times.
A beautiful trail
with none of the advertisements
lay by my side;
yes the one I was looking for
for years.
We cleaned its edges
and related new tales of creation there
and, cloaked under the widowed sky
for many nights, we wove sweet futures;
and talked about our faiths.
This road,
made of immortal metals
was beyond my imaginations
and at last
I found for myself a beautiful trail
and that was my beloved trail!

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