Ascetic's Song


I wrote poems
not for daily bread
I planted my poems
not in rice begging bowls
set before glutted ones
I planted poems
in the brows of the children
Glutted ones may say
Not poem/not song
I sang only slogans
But the ravaged nipples of my mother's breasts bear witness
I sang a new way of life
What have I to fear?
I sang the song of the hungry ones.

There in the contented one's dwelling
development slogans blaring
Here in the poor one's dwelling
flames of hunger flaring
throbbing like a festered wound
painful life
Hopes of a tasty scrap to eat in this life
burning like blisters
in the children's eyes
There leveling guns
at suffering ones' doorways
haughty murderers getting intoxicated
Here Mangale Chepang's daughter coughing in waves
all the night long
Development slogans fired like bullets
slamming into her chest
Numb from coughing all the night through

Chepangi daughter
able to cough no more/
retching from her gut
vomiting time and again
Had there been a hot scrap
for her stomach
she too would be smiling
a moon-like smile
But unable to digest
development slogans
on an empty stomach
What befell the wretched one!
Scratching at her mother's lap/
surrendering life with two tear drops

In this time
the hearths of the suffering ones
thus fouled
Standing in tears
how can I sing
a song of contentment?
At the word of courtiers
to beat the drum
on feet as if fettered
by ankle bracelets
how can I dance before the palace?
Oh! How can I auction myself
for a few coins?

And so, in this time
standing in tears
of the suffering ones
I sang poems of liberation/sang songs
that plant a moon just like pure gold
in the brows of the children
Let the courtiers say
I sang only slogans/sang protest
But the ravaged nipples of my mother's breasts bear witness
I sang a new way of life
What have I to fear?
I sang the song of the hungry ones.

There haughty murderers' gun muzzles
singing songs of peace
here load-crushed aching spines
absorbing bayonet wounds
There the landed ones
passing out promises of independence
here in the dark chamber of the torture house
crushing my beloved friend
Had doves of peace truly taken wing
my friend's dreams too
would be dancing in the sky like rainbows
Had the flower of independence truly blossomed
on my friend's lips too
a thousand moons would be smiling
But after songs of peace
issued from murderers' gun muzzles
false promises of independence
slammed into a heart made cold and rough
What befell the wretched one!
Scratching at the ground
passing blood clots from his mouth
bedecking his eyes with the morning's dreams he's surviving
in the dark chamber
like a seed in famine

In such barbaric times
standing close by the martyr's grave
how can I sing false songs?
Standing before erect Sagarmatha
How can I
like a sniveling coward
survive by bowing my head?
Oh! How can I forgive these evil ones?
If not to blare forth the call
of fresh blood stains on the shawl
of a raped wounded naked sister
If not to insert the vows
of bayonet-wounded bloody hearts
Why do I now sing a song? Why sing a poem?
Why insult my own pen?

And so in this time
standing close by the martyr's grave
leveling heart's stem
at the landed ones' gun muzzles
to plant a moon just like pure gold
in the brows of the children
I sang the devotion of martyrs
sang a poem not to be left unsung
Let the glutted ones say
I sang not songs only slogans/
not poems only rebellion
But the ravaged nipples of my mother's breasts bear witness
I sang a new way just like the victory of light
What have I to fear?
I sang the song of the hungry ones.