"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 bksushant26@gmail.com