Early In the morning
I sat down to write poetry of the country
On my Birthday
Hardly! That god baby to mountain
Was destroyed by an earthquake of hunger
They are finally leaving
the doctor of the birds
the journalists of the river and
farm army police
Meanwhile,
by having a fake lawyer as a witness
the border guards recently
divorced each other
Here, sitting in the corner,
the judge of the green trees is crouching
A village that reached the Gulf last year
soaking wet with the hot debt of tears
The airport has arrived quietly
inside a wooden box
The schools of the heart have become anarchic
Where did the teachers of the Buddhas go?
A sad tree has grown in the field
Where are the farmers like the garden?
The houses of faith are being built and destroyed
Where did the flowers engineer go?
Deleted badly deleted
The path paved by the footsteps of the porters
Picture of the country painted by the ancestors
and the letter of the common man’s
dream has been erased
Apparently,
a piece of poetry by a Cuckoo poet
fell from TUIN and flowed into the creek
If we could have been saved,
would have been sent to the Planning Commission
A rickshaw puller died
after falling into an expensive trap
If we could have been saved,
would have been sent to some agenda
of the constitution
Hey,
Where the workers of that boat?
Where are the scientists of those eras?
Where are the employees of the poor?
In a small day
How many scenes came to each eye
and became statues
The future is flowing upside down
from the pocket of age
Ah, the poetry of a country
that cannot be composed
I woke up in the evening
without writing a poem
on my birthday
-Hem Prabhas, Kathmandu
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