"You will extremely regret and suffer When your age of the sun will go down" Predicts my future, an old man of my village Since as a poet I do nothing more than To ink poems always Wherever and whenever I go.
He states, reality is different: The poems are like cataracts in the eyes Thus, they can't hold morning rays of tomorrow And the boat of life for living, they can't even sail Futile they are merely by every way Like the efforts of Sisyphus Like completely rusted irons At this modern, materialistic And calculative age. He explicates meticulously Utmost glory of this epoch; A Swiss account Or A mansion And at least a luxurious car One should have. Perhaps, a poet not The glorious figure for the old man And too many of you, too Too often shadow the essence Of the poet and its glory.
But one should know that Contributions, a poet does Are hidden like iceberg reality And his poems are like immortal martyrs Even the poet physically dies His words, history carries His feelings, deathless Like the Jesus, resurrects His life after crucifixion To limit sinners to grow His poems also whisper With spiritually as well as Emotionally dead people And make them not only walk But also sing a song of heavenly life. © Sushant Kumar B.K.
Sushant Kumar B.K., is a Nepalese poet, translator, educator and freelance writer who resides in Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He writes poems in English and Nepali languages. His poems have been featured in national and international anthologies, magazines, newspapers and online portals. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org