Home is home. Language is language.

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At times, sitting on the couch in the living room,
With a pen in my hand, I try to catch the sun’s gleam through the window,
Giving my poem life, by snipping the fragile memory out with my scissors like brain,
And laminating the paper with the memory.
The lyrics of my language lacks litheness
And dances between familiar and exotic.
I pour my emotions into poetry.
I am in a dilemma between delight and delusion.
I want to be proud of my country
That could provide the warm security.
The country’s politics stretches long in my memory,
Listening to the scream of poverty
And the insincere humor the Nepali politicians dish out for the people:
The babble, the joke.
I look at myself in the mirror and finger my face
Ruminating over the counters of the country
That ebbs and flows inside me.
I am proud of my country’s…

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