~Krishna Bhushan Bal~
Trans : Mukul Dahal
Looking into the mirror
of emerald meadow of waters,
the moon has flashed a fruity chuckle.
Tickled at the gentle touch of breeze
the water spreads wavelets,
and the entire moon appears to be a neonate,
swinging in a cradle.
The waterbirds as if to jab their beaks through the moon,
fly out of sight fluttering their wings.
The trees aross the river,
still stand still as if to shoulder the entire era.
The lamps flickering in the houses big and small,
on the either banks, are adorned like the stars.
The horizon getting narrowed gradually
has descended to stick to the hill on the bank.
The moon now crossing the yonder region of waters,
has come down to rest atop me.
I wonder from where gathered has
a flock of sheep like clouds.
As if a furry pasmina the clouds pulled over them
the sheet of the full moon spread on the meadow of waters.
Probably the switch to turn on and off
each sparkling moment is in the hand of these clouds.
© Krishna Bhushan Bal, 2003
(Source : Quillandink)
