Whose wrath is this?
Who descends from sacred
heights to kill mere
mortals whose only sin
was being born?
There’s a village
I saw on glossy
pages once.
Clutching a hill,
It yet lay
complete,
nestled in itself:
infant and old,
all one in toothless age,
the young carrying
the weight of breath today
to the horizon’s love,
and the day after’s rage.
The skies ranged above.
In between,
laughing lips and
smiling eyes claimed
their place in time.
An ancient mountain
guarded Nepal like a shrine.
Then came the floods.
Time ceased. So many
Nepals are gone.
The kisses of lovers now
stink of the corpses
of children yet unborn.
The waters have left
Nepal undone.
But not me.
Once I saw Nepal
through me. Today
I see myself through
the Nepalese me.
I have become you,
Nepal.
So, fight, just
as I write.
Nepal, you must live
even as I do.
Your prodigal villages
will return to you.