Translation from Nepali

A Request To A Son

A Nepali poem by Swapnil Smriti, translated by Pranika Koyu

Dear son,

You have a right to ask every question.

That ageing Himalaya is your ancestor.

The deep sky is your wish.

The playful breeze bustling from one tree to the other

Is your life.

Those winding roads, hanging around the hills across, like the strings

Are your dreams.

Your two eyes and

The innumerable stars are kin.

All the snow of the winter,

All the flowers of the seasons,

Are like a transient rainbow.

And a short kiss I plant on your cheek —

It is our life.

The one who bore and raised you,

And made you this lovable

That is the Earth.

She is our mother — both yours and mine.

My dear son!

Be ready with questions of all kinds.

However,

About the moon by the bamboo grove

That wanes for fifteen days

And waxes for fifteen days

Never, Never, ask …

Why, at times, does it rise in the afternoon?

Why, at times, does it become a crescent?

Oh simpleton, it is like that only…

Why?

I replied —

That is the long-lost love of your father’s youth!

Swapnil Smriti (b. Nov. 14, 1981), a contemporary Nepali poet, hails from Panchthar district, and resides in Lalitpur at the present. He works at Nepal Academy of Music and Drama. He has to his credit two anthologies of poetry: Ranggai rangako Veer (2005) and Baduli Ra Suduura Samjhana (2011). Smriti is of the opinion that poetry is an artistic outburst of the subconscious mind.

Translator’s Bio: Pranika Koyu is a poet and human rights activist. Her poems highlight socio-political context of women in Nepal. Bhaav is her first anthology. Her poems translated in English have been have been published in Zubaan and Mitra. She is the editor of Chronicles of Silence.

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Oh, Orimen!

Orimen*! Oh, Orimen! Mouthful of your Tiffin Snatched by the ‘Little Boy’*! The Tiffin box, adorned with flowers, Scattered and spoilt, Blown out brutally. A handful of your young breath In the silence of Hiroshima Peace Museum, In the depth of this stillness, Sobs every day and night, Cascading incessant tears! Oh, Orimen! Blown out With the hot lethal smoke of the Bomb In the misfortune of your hunger and thirst. Looking at your Tiffin box that carries An unuttered scream, I feel that In the nooks and corners of this Earth, By the tremor of the missiles Blasted in war celebrations, Your deformed body that bears the creviced Earth, Is postured in peace. Oh, Orimen! The war slays Countless innocents like you. The war deletes many opportunities For innocents like you. Then, As your Tiffin box Stands on the ruins of life That is destroyed and slain, War repetitively writes Histories of triumph and courage! The war In the sky, in the cloud, in the air, In the rays of the sun and the moon, In the womb of the Earth, In the surface of the oceans, Is trying to pen a ballad Wiping out the existence of life. We are out to teach, The scripts of love, life, peace and harmony Copied from your Tiffin box To all the guns that merely write death! With the same avowal, I have arrived feeling so frantic From the land of the Buddha, Nepal, Striding on the roads fired in war, To bring this message to you. Sorry, if I have been too late!