The Young Men Left Us

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The young men left us.

 

They took everything with them—

Money, warm April breezes, youth,

The scent of parijats, and above all, love.

 

The young men left us, 

And went to work as migrant laborers

In distant sultry lands,

Far away from the touch of Heaven and Hell.

 

All that remains, here in the hills,

Are the dusty poplars, the winding lanes,

The cottages with broken eaves,

The decaying walls, roofs of rusting tin,

And reticent villagers crippled

By the constant hammering of heavy memories.

 

“Where’s your son?”

 

Don’t you ask that question!

 

The answer is obvious.

 

It is a feeble pointing

With a languid index finger

Toward the dusty gravel lane,

And a cold look with yellow eyes. 

 

Twitter @bibek_writes

I long to go away

lone walker

I long to go away
From this city,
Leaving the streets and houses
Calcified and mauled
Like ancient cemeteries.

I long to drift away
Like soft autumn wind
Blowing the ghosts
That hang in the air.

As I am walking away
A leaf falls on my hand.

Distant mountains wallow
Over the fallen foliage.

A ghost falls
From the sky,
Paralyzed, electrocuted,
In this city
Of sadness.

Darkness swirls.
Silence descends.

My thoughts deepen.
I am a lonely wanderer,
Lost, walking through time,
Laden with grief.

I am unable to compose
A verse
Of life.

Sad.

I am the saddest person alive
In this city.

Twitter @bibek_writes

No one is here

Lonely_Night_by_DehCavalieri (1)

No one is here.

 

Rain falls

On the tile roofs

Of lonely nights.

 

An old owl hoots,

The sound echoes

Through the silent streets.

 

At this ungodly hour

Wet voices meet,

Rain soaked and puffed.

 

I sleep in my small

Suburban room.

 

The rush of the downpour—

Voices and their wasted alchemy—

Poises an equilibrium against

A floating stillness.

 

Shadows mingle.

 

This concrete city sleeps

In a Lethean stupor.

 

No one is here.

 

Rain falls.

 

An old owl hoots,

The sound echoes

Through the silent streets.

 

 

Twitter @bibek_writes

Loneliness

lonely

To be alone,
how frustrating at times,
how complicated for days—
to see the boredom
pulp the brain
until there remains nothing
at the day’s end.

To be unable
to assuage the pain
of nothingness
& lie on the sofa
with a book of verse
on the chest –
its weight lodged
in the spirit –
with dog-eared past,
an endless bookmarks,
how vexing at times
to be unable
to rinse the pus
of memories
from the swollen mind.

How depressing at times
to be alive unhappily,
to bring a bottle of wine,
pour a glass,
a few red droplets
on the book –
libation to the goddess
of knowledge –
& to drink slowly,
to drink alone,
how tormenting at times—
to listen to Bach alone:
drink, listen, drink, listen
lying on the sofa,
day after day,
night after night,
& fall asleep
at wee hours
of the morning
with lights on:
the porch light,
the bedroom light,
the kitchen light
& wake up at 4 pm
with a terrible headache,
roll out of the sofa,
drag the body,
to the urinal;
how annoying at times
on days like these—
days bloated with
bottles & bottles
of loneliness.

Bibek Adhikari
Twitter @bibek_writes

I might be the last one

image

I might be the last one
to write such a sad poem

of the coming night
like slow sonorous river.

The dogs break the silence
with their raucous barking;

The wind picks up its chorus,
scampering through these darkening alleys;

Shrill hoot . . . hoot . . .
of the lonely owls

is a sad reminder
of the lives we’ve lost.

I might be the last one to walk
through these darkening streets.

In the day — it was such a busy city!
No one knows — at night how alone it is!

How hurriedly everyone left
these alleys of despair.

These streets at night are homeless,
lying down in its thick emptiness;

in its claw-toothed solitude . . . I shall walk
devouring bits and pieces of raw time.

Walk in this valley of death
singing Moonlight Sonata (if you can).

Walk through this wilderness
with pungent smell of fumes,

losing yourself into this leach-greasy concrete forest.
With drooling flesh of your cheekbones,

walk as fast as you can,
skirting the utter horrors of stepped ghats.

We will be faultless partners
in perfect dreams (if you wish).

But, alas, if you do not walk with me
along with my troubled heart,

I might be the last one to walk
with such a sad poem engraved in my heart.

Twitter: @bibek_writes