I have a dream…

that one day my children, their children and their grandchildren
shall all embrace this nation as their god-given home
and not some rented shack we choose to leave
when the cracks start appearing …

I have a dream…

that one day, my little boys and girls shall be judged
not by the accent in their voices but by the sparkle in their eyes;
not by the surnames of their forefathers but by the aura of their deeds…
and once again, we shall all be free to accept each other
as divine blessings to complete our beautiful family.

I have a dream…

that one day, every grandmother, her daughter and her granddaughter
shall all live within a breath of each other,
weaving monuments of love to leave behind,
just like those temples and the ‘chautaris’,
the gompas and the ‘mithila’ arts of the past

I still have a dream …

that one day, leaders of our nation shall be judged
not by the herds of their followers, but by the virtue of

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म त गुरु मान्दिन

हातमा लौरो बोकेर
टेबुलमा ठोकेर
हाम्रो सातो लानेलाई
नपढाई जानेलाई
म त गुरु मान्दिन
झुक्न पनि जान्दिन !
प्रश्न सोध्नै नदिने
हाम्रा कुरै नसुन्ने
तँ भनेर हेप्नेलाई
सधै मुर्ख देख्नेलाई
म त गुरु मान्दिन
झुक्न पनि जान्दिन !
स्वस्थ्य शिक्षा पढाउने
आफै धुवाँ उडाउने
फोहोर लुगा लाउनेलाई
सधै ढिला आउनेलाई
म त गुरु मान्दिन
झुक्न पनि जान्दिन !

 

शिशिर ढकाल
कक्षा -८ , ब्लुमिंङ् स्कलर एकेडेमी
अनामनगर

फेसबुकका पोस्टहरुबाट साभार गरिएको यो लेख हो। धन्यवाद रवीन्द्र मिश्रलाई, ध्यानआकर्षण गरिदिनुभाकोमा।

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As this city of five fold a million woke up
a ruthless mob of five fold a hundred cracked down,
held hostage to this city of lost souls,
their blades sharpened with our cowardice,
their seething passion fueled from our hollow despairs

as this sheep wanders aimlessly
down these bare streets of Kathmandu
am left red-faced by her nakedness,
spikes after spikes of anguish shoot up,
herds of poker-faced zombies march past me,
fear imprinted on their drained faces,
crushed by the sight of mere couple wolf packs

The reign of wolves runs rampant
ruthless rulers of a kingdom of million weak sheep
a land, where dues are paid with fear
and despair is the only  currency
while they lick our fear
will you dance to these mad pipers
As we march towards a cliff of despair
Us, ‘poor, waylaid ‘ sheep, tis time to make a choice

Maybe some god will pity you and me, maybe …
maybe god is just one of us cowards, maybe

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