~Nirmal Kumar Thapa~
Living in letters is not as cold as you lived in the body
Images of ages changes
hence your sainthood is the same
An immortal sense you left behind is alive.
I can listen to your footsteps
Silence bloomed in the riverside
Felt cold to see the dancing ducks
And lifted the rainy days.
I entered your land of origin,
A new man standing right there with old robes
Rightly said, this is your birth room,
“In fact, this is your parents’ bed
Where the master seed was planted”
The aroma of old pines trees flavored my soul,
Time paused somewhere in between these walls and windows, but I can feel your eyes,
With the view seen from the window,
Same clouds shower gentle drops of love
Compassion bound into verses
Hiding the self in pairs of sonnets
Drama is still going on,
As if someone is trying to erase
The immense beauty of play,
How can he do so!
Once a play played by players
The only play remains and players disappear
To me,
I am no more here,
Simply disappear and dissolve into you,
I know these walls may fall down someday and these windows and doors too
Still, my Astro Ones recall those unsung melodies
Whispers closely sitting next to you
With mortal curtains
Woodland would seal the house
And sealed my memories forever.
(Source : Global Literature in Libraries Initiative (GLLI) website)
