SOFT STORM

The Poem

I became soft

I became soft

after I heard the tumult arid (disturbances)

I inherited the soft

when the sky grew like crocuses (a flowering plant)

over stones and

became five inches taller

that very night

when moon skidded down

your walls

speaking in the language

of posters and politics

rituals and reasons.

 

I became soft

as the softness rose like a gale (a strong violent wind)

tearing my roofs

that very night

when the moon sang of

lampposts and gutters

in this seamless city. (metaphor – a problem less city)

 

I became soft

when homeless children in Thamel

cried with hunger under the bat-bearing

trees of Kesharmahal;

 

I became soft

when I returned from the melee (confusion, turmoil)

where ceremony

dances with mad steps

on the unwedded gardens of history

growing around protruded rocks. (stuck out)

 

I became soft

when I alone turned to you

leaving deep dents of words

on these white sheets;

 

I became soft storm

when I saw a forlorn child (hopeless)

carrying transistor radio around his neck

run around wailing

to find his mother

in the corridors of violent history.

 

I became a soft storm

when I saw a man

beaten mercilessly

for no reason

before his family

by nobody for no reason

in no sensible times.

I became soft when I saw

a blood-stained shirt

speaking in the earth’s ears

with bruised human lips

in the far corner under the moon

of history and dreams

playing hide and seek

in open museums of human times.

 

I became soft since you gave words

but did not listen to them,

gave storms but didn’t wait to see its Leela

over the silent stone.

Crocuses have grown over the stone-

I saw that moonlit night, in the narrow lanes

where I too have walked alone pensively in rain tears

and little chuckles of sun laughter

that have risen and melted like rainbow.

Soft is my storm that rages and rages

over silent pages, silent stones,

silent forlorn shirts carrying war memories,

silent dilapidations of gods’ abodes

where dances and songs

are buried under helpless divine debris

in human courtyards.

 

Soft is what you saw,

I honor your moon eyes but the mad times spools

winding all that we see and live with,

stone growing in flower moon humming melodies

history rushing under the lamp post

and over deforested land,

birds singing of bizarre journeys over the warming earth

rhododendron blooming in winter,

mother earth telling of tumults

in the songs of the sad birds,

All in unison have created this soft gale.

But in these hard times

I want to melt like a rainbow

my soft storm in your minuscule sky.

My soft storm dances in ripples

of your uneasy lake.