Saudade

 

How miraculous it is

that with every one of your mundane

deprecating thoughts

for the self and the moments

of the selfless

harming, demeaning,

terrorizing and a sheer

trepidation that follows

in the alterity,

the monstrous antagonizing reciprocity

of my immanence so subtly 

written in pages of anonymity

devours my love for life

in the name of a pretentious freedom!

I play with words –

with the eyes of dissonance,

despondent is this soul of a clueless

symposium in fault

for being existent,

for being a being

with flesh and hope.

With bougainvillea in the background

and bamboo leaves –

shading the turmoil of ever sore Kathmandu 

from the details of broken houses

and shedding griefs. 

I stand alone

in the somnolent hue of the dust, 

diving along to the chatters sunburnt kids

easily burst in rhyming games,

to the tales of the old man 

who sits tight in the vindication

of him never being like them. 

“Why am I so different?”

In the myths and bouquets of sunflower

which is thrown at the

other side of the road,

the intrusion of the want 

and the moment of living,

of not living,

and the moment of a protest

to derive nothing

from the amusement, or the eyes viewing 

a nonchalant paradise,

I stand unbothered. I don't want to be like them. 

The horrid hollow coffin of destiny,

procured with dust and motives of my own 

dreams – of freedom, 

of vendetta, of redemption, of the affirmed words 

in my sadness, so deliberately wishing

not to feel anymore!

I want to give in. 

To void, to timelessness, to time.

Oh dear life,

would you be kind enough to let me go?