Home is home. Language is language.

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.

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I grimaced and remained self-contained because he was reminding me of my ground reality, my poverty. Being a son of a farmer who worked on the farm that hardly yielded enough crops, I could barely have two pieces of clothes in a year, nor quality flip-flops to wear, let alone shoes. He was right that one should be lucky enough to acquire such privileges as he was in.


जीवनका कलेबरमा हुन्छन तिनै रङ्ग
आज एउटा भोलि अर्को तपाईं हामि संग
लौ हामि होली खेलौ बोकी हातमा रङ्ग
तेरो मेरो भाव फाली मिलौ साथि संग