Withering Flowers Along the Road (Poetry Collection)

Withering Flowers Along the Road

(Poetry Collection)

Saran Rai

Dedication

(In memory of Laxmi Rai)

The eternal love you gave birth to — I must nurture.
The beautiful flower-plants of thought you planted — I must tend.
The loving “me” you cared for and protected — I must now care for and protect.
The most difficult of all… I must console the heart that weeps remembering you!

You adorned me with beautiful seven colors.
You lifted me to fly together in the sky of love.
You still dwell in my heart, and you will remain.
Even in this multi-colored life, you accompany me — we are still together.
You who drenched me in boundless love are eternal, immortal, undying!

May I keep swimming in the ocean of love you created.
Even if my wings are cut, may I still fly in the sky of love you made.
May I fulfill the unfinished dreams you left behind.
(With you beside me, I smiled and laughed for you.)
Remembering you (how can I laugh when you are gone?) may I still weep much more.
May I endure and experience this many-colored life in whatever way it comes, until its final chapter closes

Poem Index

The Withering Flower
What Shall One Take Along?
Human
Inclusive
We Shall Meet Again
Death Keeps Blooming Along the Path
We Are Waves
Such Is Life
How Helpless… Helpless Life
After All, Human
Could Not Throw Off the Yoke
The Heart of the Nation
Can You?
Politics
The Sun on the Hill
Dharan
What and How?
You and I
The Poem of Life
The Clenched Fist Is Ours
The Same Destiny
‘Makeshift’ Life
A Country’s Story
The Final Message
I Am Coming to Meet You
Better a Mad Life
I Will Live a Life
Eternal Beauty
String an Undying Garland
Child
The Common Man
Song
The Legend of the Yeti Lake
When Trampled by the Footsteps of the Sun
Shoet Expression_ Sigh
I Love My Poor Body
The Bloomed Blossom
Responsibility
That Day Which Will Never Return
This Mortal Garment
The Core Truth_ Impermanence
Without You, How Can the Flute of Longing Play
The Final Waitimg

44. The Intoxication of Beloved Life

Life_ Ab Examination
Am I Really Alone?
So That I May Smile at the Final Moment

The Withering Flower

Life was moving on,
Rolling, flying onward.
Where, how, when did it get punctured?
How were the wings of the flying heart cut?
It has stopped rolling,
Stopped blooming.

Through changing climbs, descents, and cliffs,
Falling and rising again, moving and flying,
Blooming along the continuous journey—
Life was not immortal; it was a withering flower.

What Shall One Take Along?

I disappeared here
Like a leaf in the forest,
Like a grain in the desert,
Like a moment in the vastness of time.

What count is a grain?
What count is a moment?
But, friend—
The desert is made of heaps of grains.
Time is the endless flow of moments.
The ocean is a gathering of drops.

I am a drop that dries away,
A grain that blows away,
A moment that passes.

Am I an image or a reflection—
Who am I?
What did I bring with me?
What must I take along?
What can I take along?

Everything was here.
I nurtured the illusion that it was mine.
Friend,
I still remain confused—
After all, what shall one take along?

Human

Under the sky of ideals,
On the ground of one’s own faith and belief,
Wearing umbrellas of selfish interests,
Humanity flows in the endless crowd of humans,
Gets lost in the vast fair of humanity.

Like a silkworm,
Man becomes imprisoned in the cocoon of his own selfishness.

Between the two parallel lines of ideal and reality,
Like a pendulum of a clock,
Sometimes he stands on the line of ideals and speaks,
Sometimes on the ground of reality
Blowing the trumpet of self-interest.

How much ideal and how much reality is a human?
How much light and shadow?
How much flower,
How much leaf,
How much thorn?

Touched by the philosopher’s stone of ideals,
How much gold can a human become?
Thrown into the furnace of selfish ambition,
How terrifying an iron weapon can he become?

Melted in the warmth of love,
How cool as snow can a human be?

Human is an infinite mystery.
Life is endless wonder.
No matter how much one lives,
There is always a new taste.

To fully know life’s flavor,
Even a thousand lifetimes would be insufficient.

Inclusive

The flowers invited the thorns,
Persuading them, “Let us live together.”
“I am a thorn — can I live with flowers?”
“We live with leaves; without thorns we are incomplete.”

The union of flowers, leaves, and thorns—
A harmony of beauty, charm, and delight.
“Yes, within this green world,
Even thorns are uniquely included.”

We Shall Meet Again

Where the beginning is, there lies the end.
From the infinite we came,
To the infinite we must return.

Having arrived on earth,
We must roar,
Sound the drum of life,
Let life bloom through smiles,
And return again to the infinite.

Endure the pain of separation, beloved.
After endless separation,
In the endless course of time—
We shall meet again.

Death Keeps Blooming Along the Path

Searching for sweetness, fulfillment, and completeness in life,
Flying in the sky of hope,
Like a flower sometimes I smile.

Carrying the longing for the full taste of life,
Sinking in the pond of despair,
Like a flower sometimes I wither—yet again
For divine light,
For eternal peace,
When I light my own heart like a torch,
I see within myself a vast world of illusion.

Lost in the splendor of delusion,
I find my forgotten self within.
When I walk carrying death,
Stretching eager hands to grasp it,
And bend to pick it up—
Death whispers into my ear:

“Traveler, do not stoop to gather death on your journey.
Do not stop—keep moving forward on life’s path.
For death, for you, blooms all along the way.”

We Are Waves

Discontent lives within us.
Against injustice,
Against exploitation,
We rise like foreheads held high—
Like waves of the sea,
One after another,
Standing as countless surges.

Seeing the red dawn breaking,
We fill ourselves with courage.
Against spreading violence,
We sing the song of humanity.

This land is ours—
Adorned by mountains and sacrifice.
With reverence in our hearts,
We climb step by step
The ladders of progress.

Within us lives dissatisfaction—
So we rise again
Like waves of the sea,
Countless and unyielding.

Such Is Life

Life—
I stare at the stump,
The stump stares at my knees.

The desire to live
Goes to the cattle shed.
Who grants blessings even to Shiva himself?

Life— add, subtract, multiply, divide.
Death— the result is zero.
In the end, the account of life and death is equal.

Such it is—
This two-day life.

How Helpless… Helpless Life

Life… how helpless!
It aches—endures,
Weeps, cries out—yet
Cannot escape crushing pain.

Pressed, flattened, ground down, torn apart,
Restless, wounded, exhausted—
It screams for liberation,
Yet cannot flee.

In this indifferent, merciless world,
How helpless… how utterly helpless is life!

If only life could be lived again—
But alas!
This “one-time birth” never returns.
Rare, precious, fleeting life—
How helpless… helpless… helpless it is.

10.

After All, Human

Human beings can twist and braid
Strong and daring ropes so long
They could bind the entire world
And steer it wherever they wish.

And yet—
Is it not strange?
At the smallest obstacle,
Instead of climbing upward toward solutions,
Some think of tying the rope around their own neck.

But humans invent countless strategies,
Struggle bravely and tirelessly for freedom,
Blowing away difficulties like dust in a storm.

Human indeed—
Never tired, never accepting defeat,
Moving forward endlessly to wear the garland of victory.

11.

Could Not Throw Off the Yoke

The strap on the forehead,
The yoke on the shoulders,
The burden of a donkey—
Could not be cast off.

Small holes in life and heart
Have grown into gaping wounds—
Yet could not be mended.

To sustain a fistful of life,
We became birds, mice, oxen, donkeys—
But could not become lions.

The yoke remained.
Though we say “one stomach is enough,”
We could not nourish even that well.

12.

The Heart of the Nation

Today the nation
Is divided into large pieces,
Each claimed by the powerful.

As if the country were a giant loaf of bread—
Whoever can swallow the biggest piece, does.
Whoever can fatten most, fattens.

If the nation were alive,
Pins would be thrust into its heart—
And from its bleeding,
Songs of false heroism would be sung.

Yet from the blood of millions,
A new dawn would rise.
A new life would emerge.

Then—
The nation would no longer be fragmented.
The heart of the nation
Would belong to all.

Here is the continuation of your translations, rendered in a lyrical yet faithful English tone suitable for poetry reading and publication:

12.

The Heart of the Nation

Today, the nation
is divided into several large fragments.
Each fragment has fallen
into the share of some powerful figure.

Inheritance divided.
Wealth partitioned
as if the nation itself
has become a giant loaf of bread.

Whoever can swallow the biggest piece—swallows it.
Whoever can grow fatter—grows.
Whoever can tear off and sell more—sells more.

In the process of fattening, swallowing, and selling,
if the nation were alive and breathing,
into its heart
each of those powerful men of every fragment
would stab a pin—

And as the heart of the nation
was torn into shreds,
along with its cry
they would sing songs
of their valor, masculinity, and courage.

Like leeches sucking the nation’s blood,
they would blow trumpets of their greatness.
Their so-called history
of wisdom, cleverness, and patriotism
would be written
with the blood flowing
from the nation’s heart.

Then—
leaping upon the chest of a country
already consumed by tuberculosis and cancer,
performing a wild dance of destruction—

The share they looted and devoured,
the citizens they sucked dry
until only hollow shells remained—

Against them,
always—
with whatever weapons necessary—
they would declare one-sided wars.

Brandishing the very pins
stabbed into the nation’s heart,
they would rush
to pierce millions of wounded hearts,
to attack millions of exploited minds,
to enslave millions of exploited hands.

As a result—
from the blood flowing out of millions of hearts,
from the cracking sound
of millions of locked minds,
from the freedom
of millions of hands that refused to submit—

A new dawn
would already have been born.
A new life
would already have been invited.

And then—
the nation would no longer be divided into fragments.
The practice of stabbing pins
into the nation’s heart,
of snatching another’s share to grow fat—
would no longer exist.

And at that time—
the nation, the soil, the air, the water—
all would belong to all.

The hearts of all citizens
would become the shared heart of the nation.
Every drop of blood
would become a shared drop of all.

— Utsah, Issue 48 (2044 B.S.)

13.

Can You?

After I am dead,
kill me
as many times as you wish.

After I am dead,
it does not matter
how many times you kill me.

Yes—after I am dead,
kill me as often as you can.

But… while I am alive—
when death dares to swallow me,
in the final moment,
when an unsatisfied thirst for life
still longs to be fulfilled,
when I still wish to live—

If you can—
help me live one more day.
If you can—one more hour.
If you can—one more minute.
Help me live
even a single moment longer!

Can you save
even one more breath?
Reflect on that.

(Dharan, 7 Ashoj 2074)

14.

Politics

We are sensitive robots,
yet we nurture the illusion
that we are autonomous.

We jump, we dance,
we shout in many voices—
controlled by remote control.

Yet we cultivate the illusion
that we are free, active, creative.

In whose hands is the remote?
How are we being operated?

Without knowing—
we carry the illusion
that we are doing politics.

To cultivate illusion—
to climb ladders
stepping on heads—
to wear the mask of ideals and principles
while playing the ball of opportunism—

To show black as white,
to display false dreams
and fool many—

Hypnotism.
Shamelessness.
Remote control.

Dirty politics—this is politics.

But—

Politics that is pure as the Himalayas,
clear, unwavering;
innocent, selfless;
gentle yet strong;

Devoted and supported by the people,
where there is no deceit;
for the people, the nation, and development;
clear, beautiful, and true—

That is beloved politics.
That is politics.

15.

Sunlight on the Hill

(A Poem for Those Who Have Crossed Seventy)

No one is known to remain here forever.
Once gone, none are known to return.

The prosperity left behind by those who departed
stands in abundance—
it is your duty
to add a golden fragrance to it.

O sunlight on the hill,
you still scatter brightness.
Where has your life of seventy years gone?

Scatter the many colors of creation
upon the canvas.

Not weeping—
but making others smile,
smiling yourself as you depart—
you are the brave one.

(Dharan, 7 Ashar 2074)

16.

Dharan

To those to whom she gives something,
she cannot ask for anything in return.
From those from whom she receives something,
she feels ashamed
for being unable to give back.

In the trade
of giving and receiving,
in the marketplace of bargaining—

Dharan
cannot rule shamelessly
by becoming Inaruwa.
Cannot cultivate beauty
by becoming Pokhara.
Cannot reach power
by becoming Biratnagar.

Dharan—
has become the feet that are trampled,
the soles that are crushed.

However much she is trampled,
she lives.
She continues to live…
beloved Dharan.

Here is the continuation of your translations, keeping the philosophical depth and emotional clarity intact:

17.

What Am I Like?!

Shrinking and shrinking,
I become small—subtle, invisible, imperceptible.
But when I expand,
I grow vast—greater even than the universe.

What should I be?
Invisible—
or infinite?

When I search within myself,
I find a whole, beautiful, shining diamond.
When I search outside, in worldly life,
I find a crying, helpless child.

So what am I?
A diamond—
or a worm?
Or a heart
torn into pieces?

(Dharan, 13 Chaitra 2074)

18.

You and I

One day,
you and I were together.
We were imagining
that we would remain together for ages—
that we would create
a simple, golden, beautiful world.

We had resolved it—
but in the selfish climate of the age,
how did we become separated,
like two shores
that can never meet?

We parted—
and now,
you stand upon the wind,
aiming only at the sky.

I stand upon the earth,
and have become
an ordinary man
who lives upon the ground.

You, in your sense of greatness,
surround yourself with grand words.
Perhaps,
stepping upon the shoulders
of many voiceless friends like me,
you try to pluck the fruits of the sky.

In words, you construct heaven.
In words, you become the friend
of all the poor and oppressed.
Perhaps, if you can,
you exploit them again.

O my friend—
in words, how great you appear!

You can mock
those of us
who stand firmly on the earth.

How shall I say it?
You are flying in the sky,
trying to bloom in the air
after abandoning the soil.

But you should know—
even those who fly in the sky
must descend again to the earth.
Every flower
must bloom from the soil.

In search of artificial fangs and claws,
forgetting me—
and thousands like me—
you are trying
to become a fake tiger.

And you even advise me
to become one.

Perhaps you would use me as a shield
to win your counterfeit battles.

That is why, in your eyes,
I am only a soldier.

But I—
preserving the dignity of my own arms,
guarding my self-respect,
loving the soil—
have lived upon it.

I have laughed—
I have wept—
in love with the soil.

I do not gaze at the sky,
nor do I need
artificial wings to fly.

I will die
in the same soil
where common people die.
I will live
in their sorrow and joy.

To bloom, I do not need the sky—
I need the soil
soaked with my own sweat, blood, and tears.

In the soil lies
the world of my desire,
my sacrifice—
my life.

And for that soil,
this life of mine is dedicated.

You and I—
once met by chance,
two shores—
now separated.

You will walk your path.
I will walk mine.

When we meet again,
old acquaintance will hold no meaning.
We shall stand in struggle.

Victory and defeat will be certain—
with my victory
on the side of truth and justice,
your end
will come
with injustice and oppression.

Here is the English translation of your poems (19–25):

19.

The Poem of Life

(One)

When I become utterly hopeless and discouraged,
when even a thin line of support, a tiny light,
a resting place where the heart could lean
seems nowhere to be found,
I go where the flowers are.

Welcomed by their smiling faces,
I forget all worldly sorrow, pain, and suffering.

Absorbed in their joy, charm, and beauty,
I even forget myself.
I only remember this—
I am alive, and as long as I live,
even if I must borrow joy, charm, and beauty from flowers,
I must smile, I must live!

(Two)

How many times I have fallen—
I do not know.
But however many times I fall,
I must rise and move forward—
so life has kept reminding me.

Therefore, life is greater than I am;
it has taught me to live even in sorrow.
There is nothing greater than living, my brother.
I thank this dear life
for reminding me so.

(Published in “Hamro Chaukibari” – Chaukibari Society Hong Kong, 2075 Poush B.S.)

20.

The Clenched Fist Is Ours

The broken arm is not ours—
the clenched fist is ours.

The thin, watery tales of the past are not ours—
the thick history stained with blood is ours.

The sky alone is not ours—
the green earth within it,
the countless stars,
the hearts drowned in tears,
the many broad chests—
they are ours.

Mere sentimentality is not ours—
harsh practicality is ours.
An existence drifting like smoke is not ours—
a life burning like a flame is ours.

Ash alone is not ours—
the tiny sparks within it,
we do not forget.
The glowing embers, the flying sparks,
the blazing flames are ours.
The red rays of flowers,
the tender buds soaked in winter rain—
they are ours.

The broken arm is not ours—
the clenched fist is ours.
The thin, watery tales of the past are not ours—
the thick history stained with blood is ours.

(Panchamrit, Issue 11–12, Kartik–Marg 2026 B.S.)

21.

One Destiny

Era, awareness, civilization, problems, dreams—one.
Shared kicks, blows, wounds, pain—one.
Like me, you struggle to live a day with a single meal—
I should love you, yet I envy you, simply because you are my contemporary.

Share, suffering, grief, disease, learning, devotion—one.
Shared medicine, poison, treatment, torment—one.
Like me, you survive a few days with treatment—an ordinary person.
We should unite, yet we cannot—
we clash and die, because we are “blind masses.”

Lies, deception, fraud, traps, prisons—one.
Shared politics, ideas, ideologies, policies—one.
If politics were good, we could live joyfully within it.
But caught in dirty political webs,
our destiny is to struggle and die in tears.

(Baisakh 14, 2073 B.S., Dharan)

22.

A “Makeshift” Life

“May what is aimed and desired be fulfilled!”—
the blessings of our ancestors.
But what has truly been fulfilled?
What we wished, imagined, asked for—
what have we really received?

We struggle desperately just to live.
And even living has now become merely “makeshift.”
If life is only this makeshift existence, my friend,
why must we go on living?

Yet, even so—
I will not renounce my claim to live.
Until my heart is satisfied, I will wear this life
like an old, worn-out garment.
Until my soul is content, I will carry it
like a heavy basket on my back.

And my dear friend,
this one-time contract of life—
I will not tear it.
No matter how tired I become,
I will not write a resignation letter
to life itself.

(As long as breath remains, I will endure living;
as long as it moves, I will push this life forward.
Whatever has fallen into my share,
I will bear it and live through it.)

(Falgun 16, 2070 B.S., Friday, Dharan)

23.

The Story of a Nation

From the world map,
a state disappeared—its motherland vanished.
Its citizens became homeless,
driven from their own land into another, becoming refugees.
They endured unimaginable suffering, torture, oppression.

Yet
in their hearts,
their country did not disappear.
Instead, it rose more aflame,
established stronger than before.

They were burned alive,
killed by bullets, bayonets, gunpowder, and bombs.
Unarmed children, elderly, and women
faced inhuman atrocities never seen in history.

Yet
the invaders could not conquer their nation.
It will rise again more ablaze,
it will be established stronger than ever.

The eyes of justice around the world watch them.
The hands of justice across the world support them.
Each drop of their blood
is becoming more powerful than a bomb.
In every cry of their suffering,
world opinion turns in their favor.

No matter what the invaders do,
no matter how shameless their oppression,
the living nation in their hearts
keeps organizing them, strengthening them,
teaching them not to waver in pain.

And today people say—
their state must be restored.
Their state will be restored.

(Akshalok, Year 2 Issue 2 – Palestinian Special Issue, 2039 B.S.)

24.

The Final Message

Speech had already ceased.
Not only words—
even the lips would not move.
No strength to gesture,
no power to turn the head.

Perhaps by turning the small eyes,
looking around,
one wished to shed tears.
But when life withdrew its support,
even tears could not gather in the eyes.
Even tears could not fall.

In the final moment—
alas, poor soul—
the final message could not be spoken,
not even expressed by a sign…
In the last hour,
no final message could be left behind.

25.

I Am Coming to Meet You

Waiting for you,
believing you would come,
I sat at resting places, mountain passes, under shade,
on trails, crossroads, and junctions.

Autumn passed.
Summer and spring passed.
New leaves and buds bloomed,
flourished and fell.
I waited like an emotional lover—
foolishly, I waited for you.
Waiting for opportunity, I became a fool.

Therefore,
now I am aware.
A coward misses even when opportunity comes.
A fool keeps waiting for it.
The industrious one moves forward without waiting.

Achievement may be everything—
or it may not be everything.
Whatever it is—
victory to life!

Rather than spending life waiting,
I am coming to meet you.
If you can,
step forward and come too.

(Laxmi Sadakka Kavita – Sixth Collection, 2053 B.S.)

Here is the English translation of Poems 26–31:

26.

Better a Mad Life

In life,
a person surely goes mad at least once.

In madness—one may become a poet.
In madness—one may become a lover.
In madness—one may become a criminal.
What one becomes,
and how long that madness lasts—
that is one’s true life.

For some, madness lasts a lifetime.
For some, only for a while.
When the madness ends,
a person
is yoked into household life like an ox,
driven into work like a donkey,
ground in the millstone of practicality.
Poor human being—where is the time even to breathe?

No time
to listen to the murmuring of rivers and streams,
to see the colorful flowers, butterflies, and nature,
to hear songs sung in love,
to plant an ornamental flower for the coming generation.

Shame on such a terrifying,
tragic, heart-rending human life.
Better than a life that feels like death
is a life painted with madness—
because
everyone deserves to go mad once in life.

(Saransh, Issue 5, 2067 Baisakh–Asoj B.S.)

27.

I Will Spend a Life

What am I?

If I am iron—I will rust.
If I am wood—I will decay and rot.
If I am lifeless—there is nothing to say.
If I am alive—death will surround me.

Why despair?

If I am without feeling—there is nothing.
If I am sensitive—
I laugh and cry
in my own joys and sorrows, and in those of others.

Laughing and crying,
climbing and descending life’s ups and downs,
somehow I will pass this life—
like the one life everyone receives.

Somehow I will pass it—
and then I will pass beyond…
to the other shore… into infinity.
Perhaps—where everyone is.
Perhaps—where no one is.

(2066/01/17 B.S.)

28.

The Eternal Beauty

Adorned with rouge, powder, lipstick,
dressed in expensive clothes,
trying to be like a flower in a vase—delicate.
Fearing that sunlight may wither beauty,
sitting in an air-conditioned room,
watching film magazines, TV and videos,
accustomed to luxury on her husband’s earnings,
encouraging him toward corruption, black marketing, smuggling, exploitation—
can she be the eternal beauty of the inner soul?

To quench hunger and thirst,
to cover the body’s modesty with a single cloth,
soaked in wind, storm, sun, and rain,
bathing in pools of sweat day and night,
living through labor—
can she be the eternal beauty of the inner soul?

One delicate body
carrying countless desires in her heart;
another delicate soul
bearing countless ugliness upon her body.
One sees only luxury in society;
another sacrifices her life for society.
Of these two kinds of women—
which one is the eternal beauty of the inner soul?

29.

String an Immortal Garland

I give responsibility—
with activity, service, restraint, and patience—
fulfill it smiling, even at the cost of life.

I give thought—
of faith, belief, sacrifice, devotion—
live a continually struggling, beautiful life.

I give inspiration—
blend service, restraint, and patience
and string an immortal garland of action.

30.

The Child

Today’s child—
tomorrow’s leader of the nation.
Right guidance—
uplifts the future world.

A small child—
tomorrow’s leader of an era.
O child, you will soon reach
those beautiful ages.

Like a flower bud,
there will be radiant light.
The cup of sweetness and beauty—
it is the child who will drink it.

If children flourish,
the nation will be beautiful,
the environment delightful,
the message joyful and vibrant.

Where children bloom,
the country shines.

31.

The Common Person

Like a vast ocean
unable to be crossed,
barely sustaining life in neglect,
living between existence and nonexistence,
easily frightened,
easily scolded,
easily cheated and deceived—
confused, shaken, unstable—
the common person.

A symbol of pain and anguish,
a symbol of hardship, sorrow, cries and lamentation,
a symbol of hunger, thirst, and exploitation—
the common person.

The footrest for all,
the resting place for all.
Stepped on, pressed, crushed, trampled—
unable to wash away the pain.
When the heart is torn apart,
advice is heard:
“Renounce, renounce—
abandon self-interest and sacrifice.”

Weak, loose, light,
oppressed and crushed,
like a mere footprint,
without height, voice, language, or identity.

When the common person stirs like a shadow,
when he murmurs and sighs—
why does the heart not split open?
Why does the mind not shatter?
Why does the body not melt like wax?

The common person is iron,
is air, is rain, is even a rainbow.
A canvas of hunger, salvation, desire.
Squeeze the blood of the heart to color it,
let sweat flow.

The common person is like a rotting corpse—
it can be torn apart,
dried like a straight stick,
served at feasts—
but never honored as a human,
nor made into a statue.

Exhausted, intoxicated
by the reality,
addicted to life,
lost in illusion and desire,
wanting to spread wings and fly in the sky—
when struck by the slap of reality,
in immeasurable pain and restlessness
the common person cries and calls—
but no one listens.

Even if about to break,
the common person must not be broken;
even decayed, must be preserved—
for the common person is precious, fertile soil.
Anything can be planted there,
harvested there—
yet the common person need not eat the fruit,
does not get to eat it.
Still,
the common person must grow the fruit,
must drown in tears,
dry in mud,
and scatter like dust.

Finding great joy in little,
little pain in much,
always able to smile in darkness and light,
able to endure every moment of suffering,
able to sustain life in any joy or sorrow—

Blessed, blessed is the ordinary person.
Blessed, blessed, truly blessed
is the common person.

(2058 Bhadra B.S.)

32.

Song

(One)

Do not kill love, do not kill love—
life moves by the thread of love.
To receive loving love,
I will wait forever, my whole lifetime.

Love, love—affection shining bright;
life becomes sweet through love.
This human form is a cluster of flowers,
blooming on a branch only to be offered.

Do not kill love, do not kill love—
life moves by the essence of love.
To receive loving love,
I will endure sorrow and hardship all my life.

Let us make this loving world beautiful;
let us fulfill sweet and lovely dreams.
Love makes the earth radiant.
Let us live—and let others live—in joyful love.

(From the novel “Flight of the Young Heart,” published online only)

(Two)

I need no one’s support—
I will fight my battle alone.
Whether I lose or win, whatever the result,
to endure it is fate—fortune or misfortune.

The more I laugh, the more I suffer;
I must leave everything behind, take nothing along.
As I came alone at birth,
why should I weep for lacking company?
I will fight my battle alone.

Gain and loss are illusions of the mind;
the main thing is peace of mind.
I will digest betrayal like fire;
I will bear wounds like a warrior.
I will fight my battle alone.

(Three)

I am disordered, friend—my heart disturbed;
wounds of the heart stirred by pain.
The wound neither festers nor dries.
Tell me, friend—where shall I go to hurt even more?

It swelled and grew yet found no balance;
I mature, I tire—yet the heart finds no rest.
The heart itself is vast like the sky;
life crooked and steep like cliffs and ravines.

Falling and rising, the path must move forward.
Life is a flower—it must bloom and wither.
I offer the flower of life as a gift to love;
may love shine and glitter across the earth.

(2069/5/17, Dharan)

(Four)

Guns are dearer than flowers;
darkness spreads across the world.
Cruel death is scattered everywhere,
mocking humanity.

Those who cannot create anew
have no right to invite destruction.
Those who cannot restore life
have no right to take it.

Let the flame of life burn;
let colorful flowers bloom.
Live—and save others too;
together let us sing the song of new life.

(2064, Dharan)

(Five)

Awaken from every home, awaken from every city—
rise against liars, the corrupt, the deceitful!

The time has come to build a new moral foundation;
the time has come to fulfill the martyrs’ dream of a beautiful nation.
Now is the turn for clean, true politics to build the people and the country.

Let ordinary people unite and create their own politics;
let us adopt pure and honest governance;
let us send theatrical dirty politics far away.

(2069/5/14, Dharan)

(Six)

I am here alone—where are you?
I keep crying, half-living, half-dying, in faint memories.

I never knew tears could become a river.
You left—without my even realizing when.
After you were gone, I tried to cross the flood of tears—
I said I would live smiling, yet I drowned, unable to swim.

I try to stand—the ground has already sunk.
I try to fly—my wings have already been cut.
I try to mend my heart—it has long been broken.
I try to meet you—the day has already set.

I am here alone—where are you?
You are not here, yet I see you everywhere.
O pain, enough—end now.
Without you, how shall the flute of longing play?

(2076 Poush 1, Dharan)

(Seven)

Time is a river—it keeps flowing; it cannot be dammed.
Youth is a bird—it flies away; it cannot be held.
Life lasts only while we live; whatever we must do, let us do it while alive—
while alive, while alive… let us do it while alive.

We are alive and able to experience the world—
beautiful feelings, beautiful thoughts, beautiful life-flowers
must be planted while alive.
Beauty never lives alone;
it lives in every heart while we live.

If we do good, goodness returns.
Forgetting sorrow, let us create a beautiful world.
Let us build a joyful garden of love and affection.
Life lasts only while we live—
let us live smiling in this garden-world.

(2077 Falgun 6, 2:30 a.m.)

33.

The Legend of the Yeti Lake

I saw
a seventeen-year-old girl holding a small child,
begging by the roadside.

I said, “The baby is crying—feed it milk.”
“This is not a baby,” she said, “it is my husband.”

“How can such a small child be your husband?” I asked.
She replied, “This is the fruit of the water of the Yeti Lake.”

She gazed toward the distant horizon and said:

“We were a couple living at the foot of the Himalayas,
thousands of kilometers from here.
We spent fifty winters together,
raised children,
but once grown, they flew away like birds
and never returned.

One day, searching for lost sheep above the snowline,
I saw the footprints of a Yeti.
Following them, I reached the Yeti Lake.
Thirsty and tired, I drank its water—
and instantly, from sixty years old, I became sixteen.

Amazed at my reflection in the clear water,
I returned home and told my husband everything.
He too went to the Yeti Lake.
When he did not return for three days,
I went searching—
and found him turned into a small child.
In greed to become younger, he had drunk too much water.

Carrying my child-husband,
I returned home.
The villagers would not let us enter.
They did not believe my story.
After walking for a month, I came here.
Now I beg to survive—with my husband.”

Believe it or not—
I stood there in doubt, watching them.
And I wondered—
could such a Yeti Lake truly exist?
If there truly were such a lake of youth…!

(Published in “Yalambar,” Kirat Rai Yayokkha Hong Kong Annual, Issue 15, 2071 B.S.)

34.

When Trampled by the Footsteps of the Sun

With tear-filled eyes, I will not look back;
do not wave your hands in farewell.

Even if invisible needles pierce the heart,
even if you remain like a patient attendant,
even if memories entangle—
do not let the sun’s footsteps
leave fresh pools of tears
in butter-soft hearts.

Life is not merely material exchange;
it is the silent transmission of new human values.
What was given? What was taken?
From crawling to walking by our own strength,
it taught us to grow from seed to sapling to tree;
to carry unbearable burdens on our shoulders—
family on one side, nation and society on the other.

Like a mother unable to nurse her child fully,
unable to pour out all affection,
going north to seek wool for her daughter’s warm sweater—
and never returning—
even at life’s final bend
we could not peel and understand it layer by layer like an onion.

And so the sun’s footsteps
continue forward,
leaving tender hearts soaked in tears—
hoping dried rivers may flow again.

(2068/4/29)

35.

Short Expressions – Sighs

(One)

For the Nation

Seeing hunger, illness, injustice, oppression—my heart ached.
Fists rose united to fight against them.
We listened to the heartbeat of nationalist passion.
But once the heart itself was sold,
what remained to ache?

Living patriots still exist across the nation;
they light great flames of love for the country,
protect sovereignty,
preserve national unity.

Now all are awakened to save the motherland—
ready to fight, to die, to defend.

(2077 Baisakh 27 – Lockdown)

(Two)

Dust

If someone remembers you,
that alone remains.
Even the memory of one who returns to soil
ultimately blends into dust.

Why worry?
From dust we came;
a statue shaped from earth—
in the end, we dissolve into dust.

(Three)

The Worry Within

Everyone has their own worry—
worry indeed.

Salt worries how to flavor the dish;
virtue worries how to repay;
gold worries how to be hidden;
worms worry as they consume the body.

We must leave the world one day—
but how to console the heart?

Tell me, beloved—
the mind keeps wandering… how shall we hold it?

(2077 Mangsir 15)

(Four)

Lockdown

For myself, for my own—
love, sunlight, shadow, joy, sorrow—
the world exists because I exist.

I must live—for myself,
for family, community, humanity.
Corona, COVID-19 waits at the door—
step outside and it may destroy all.

We have seen struggles, wars, revolutions;
now staying home is the new weapon.
If all live—we live together;
if all die—we die together.
Lockdown is the battle we must win.

(2077 Baisakh 7, Dharan)

(Five)

What Shall I Say?

As I feel like writing and playing,
the pencil runs out mid-writing.
Life drags on without reaching its destination—
what can I say of such a life?

If only time could be saved without spending;
if only life could be set aside for later.
Transient! What shall a weary heart say
about this earth we must leave despite loving it?

(2077 Mangsir 2)

(Six)

The Tribute We Cannot See

While alive, it is not given;
after death, even enemies offer it—
but the one who receives it cannot see it.

I do not want unseen tributes.
If you can, give love now—
while we are alive.

(2077/7/15)

(Seven)

The Known Path

If I disappear
unable to endure this worldly life,
do not search for me—
just think I was defeated by what I could not bear.

If I leave,
do not wait—
unable to stay, unable to endure this detached life,
perhaps I left without making noise.

Remember:
the path once taken belongs to the soil where one stays.
Do not block it with tears,
no matter how much you love—
the path once chosen is the path once chosen.

(Bhadra 21, 2077)

(Eight)

Muktak

“They run without road or river—like fools,”
seeing leaders grown fat feeding on carcasses;
“perhaps we too may eat,”—
the naïve nurture illusions;
in delusion, the hopeful public
has become small and shattered.

(Ashad 15, 2077)

(Nine)

Virus

When I see people, I don’t see humans—
I see viruses.
Not love, not affection—
only the fear of being touched.

What an age has come—
consciousness itself has become a virus!

Virus! Survive, they say!
Live—
but for others, become a virus, they say!

(Chaitra 13, 2076, Dharan)

(Ten)

The Moon of Imagination

I fear—what if I am not as you imagined?
I fear—what if you are not as I imagined?

Rather than letting the moon of imagination set,
what if I never find the lost moon?

Rather than letting dreams die in daylight,
I said—
I would spend the night with the imagined moon.

And then—
without meeting you,
I wandered midway…

(Magh 8, 2076, Dharan)

(Eleven)

Nine Some Hues (Naurangi)

A pair of birds—
one fallen silent,
no longer chirping in loneliness.

From branch to branch
they once leapt together—
now the branches remain untouched.

The sky they once shared in flight—
wings cut, it no longer flies.

Drenched in seven colors,
floating—unable to drown
in the invisible lake of longing.

Still waiting—
Will spring come again?
Will it?
Perhaps it is useless to ask.

(Twelve)

Nine Some Hues Star

Whether light falls or not,
shine one last flicker, O star!

Even beyond the final rest stop,
perhaps there is another shelter.

Rolling, flying, blooming—
this multicolored life
ends in a blink.

O multicolored memory, heartbeat dear—
shine till the very end,
my radiant support!

(Thirteen)

Old Age

Now I have nowhere to go,
for I no longer have the strength.
No destination remains,
for I can no longer walk.

No desire to earn,
for I lack the capacity to enjoy.

Yet this restless heart
is not at peace.
Still I do not know—
what life truly is.

The taste of life, the joy of living—
Old age—ah! truly, the real flavor!

(Fourteen)

What Is Good? What Is Bad?

“They are increasing,”
I say. You say, “Good!”

Good? What nonsense!
Diabetes, high blood pressure,
heart disease, thyroid,
the illnesses of shrinking age!

“They are decreasing,”
I say. You say, “Good! Good!”

Good? What nonsense!
The days left to live—
the joyful moments with loved ones!

“What is good? What is bad?”
I ask. You say, “Everything is good!”

In nature’s gradual order—
addition and subtraction of life,
creation, structure, world, destruction—
a new canvas,
painted in rainbow colors—
the artistry itself is good.

(Fifteen)

Life… Keep Walking

Keep walking, keep walking—
may I keep walking in attachment!
Life—keep walking!

Pressed by worldly burdens,
confined within a tiny circle—
yet this captive life is lovable.

If only it could stretch,
to live it fully—
to fly across the sky of life
until satisfied.

To live is a great thing—
for only the living
touch the sweetness of creation.

Even within a small circle—
keep walking!
Life—keep walking!

(Sixteen)

Life Is a Game

Life is like a game—
victory and defeat end in play.

If you always win,
the game loses meaning.
Had you let me win sometimes,
we would still be playing—
enduring sun and rain together.

Sometimes I lose even when I can win—
so that you keep playing.

What joy in victory without defeat?
What joy in life without loss?

(Seventeen)

Stage Performance

A play is being staged—
the final curtain yet to fall.
We are both audience and actors.

We laugh, cry, dance, perform—
forgetting it is only a pla

Caught in worldly love’s net,
we behave as if immortal—
forgetting we are only temporary characters.

(Eighteen)

I Have Seen Many People

Like animals seeking food,
like birds seeking grain—
wandering fields and forests
only to fill their stomachs.

No time to rest in cool shade,
no breath in life’s greenery—
like Sisyphus pushing stone endlessly.

Many such people I have seen.
Perhaps I am one of them too.

Whose fault? Birth? Life? Man?
Even death may not be innocent.

(Nineteen)

The Day of Return

From where we came—
there we must return.
No one remains here forever.

If staying were possible,
who would return?

Why be dismayed?
Everyone has a day of return.

(Twenty)

Incomplete Poem

Incomplete me
writing an incomplete poem
of an incomplete life.

I needed a full song to sing fully,
a full love to wear fully,
a full dream to dream fully.

But leaving incomplete—
I go,
like my beloved once left me incomplete.

(Twenty-one)

Journey

Singing life’s off-tune song,
I walk.
Life is said to be a journey—
walk singing, walk smiling.

The shorter the journey—
the sweeter.
The final journey—
only a moment.

(Twenty-Two)

I Want to Dive for Pearls

Do not blink your eyes—
my tender heart splits easily.
Your eyes are an ocean—
I long to dive
and bring out pearls.

(2022, Dharan)

(Twenty-Three)

Can You?

After I die,
kill me as many times as you wish!

But while I am alive—
can you help me live
one more day,
one more hour,
one more moment?

(twenty Four)

Haiku

When the lathero bird calls—
as if something is missing—
prose poem.

Foreign seeds—
why would they not sprout?—
narrative tale.

New Nepal—
may dreams grow—
politics.

36.

I Love My Own Poor Body

I love my own soil.
I love this very land of mine.
Because from this soil I am made.
Because upon this very land I stand.
And I watch life, I observe the world.

This land, this soil —
that gave me a body, gave me a heart, gave me sight —
that gave me creation, gave me life —
I love this land, this soil, immensely.

I love my own poor people.
I love my own poor heart even more.
I love my own poor body most of all.

Because it is these poor people who stood beside me.
Because it is with this humble heart that I saw and understood the world.
Because it is with this poor body that I experienced this world.

And so…
I deeply love these very people, this very heart, this very body.

And this land, this soil —
adorned by these people, this heart, this body —
I love this land, this soil, these people, this heart, this body, immensely.

37.

The Bloomed Blossom

I do not plant flowers
to adorn my hair.
I plant them
to lay upon memories.

Life—once received,
never again—
a blooming blossom.

However much lived—
that is life.
Precious, incomparable, miraculous.

Like a blossomed flower’s fragrance—
what remains in the human world
is immortal memory.

38.

Responsibility

After being born, we must live —
why live in fear, in shame, with bowed heads?
Only those who live proudly, chest open and head held high,
lead the world day and night.

Time stands beside the courageous
who constantly struggle against problems.
The priceless crown of success and honor
shines only upon such a person.

No matter how many thorns pierce and wound,
a brave soul never retreats.
Moving forward always —
even if killed or dying — never shaken.

In the chest of the brave lives love,
and love’s light radiates in all directions.
In that light, sweet life blossoms —
humanity’s beautiful world becomes more beautiful.

This joyful world is a gift
from such brave and wise ancestors.
To leave behind an even more beautiful earth
is the responsibility of this generation.

2065/2/28, Dharan

39.

That Day Which Will Never Return

On a morning walk —
this place, a mine of hope, enthusiasm, and delight.
How did I arrive here?
Why had I never come before?
Perhaps because I was alive!

This place, this atmosphere —
drizzling mist, thin fog,
sunlight veiled by haze,
cool, silent, solitary excitement,
serene, self-absorbed, energizing power.
A golden path wet with dew.

I kept walking, wanting to keep walking —
as if cradled in nature’s lap.
Joy, beauty, charm, sweetness, intoxication
spread through my heart.
As if I had touched meaning itself.
The sky like an umbrella above my head.

Not quite a Himalayan peak,
yet a hint of Himalayan coolness.
I felt like walking farther and farther —
What lies ahead? What could be there?
To see, to touch, to experience something new — farther… farther…

New experiences naturally pulled my steps forward.
The mind — calm, pure, tranquil.
Is this what the heart truly desires?
Curiosity, enthusiasm, joy, unity with nature, friendship — a gift.
Water flowing in murmuring streams nearby,
the urge to touch it, impossible to resist.

Infinite joy — 7:00 a.m. dawn.
I was alive, and she too was alive.
A beautiful, complete, delightful day —
the day we laughed and lived together.
A day that will never return —
Jestha 32, 2065 (Saturday).

40.

This Mortal Garment

While pausing from all work,
I reflect — what mistakes did I make in this life?

Did I live in fear of starving?
It was said — one meal keeps you alive one day.
Stretching each day, one by one,
grinding bones and skin for a single meal.
A life that would not move easily
was dragged forward by force.
Suffering upon suffering — how long must it be endured?

(I did not knowingly commit sin in times of fullness;
any mistakes were made in hunger.
Please forgive me… remembering this mortal body.)

2073 Baisakh 8, Dharan

41.

The Core Truth — Impermanence

What do I have? Who do I have?
Look ahead… emptiness.
Look behind… emptiness.
Finding myself… alone.

As long as this fistful of life remains,
unburned by worldly flames,
unshaken by storm, flood, landslide, earthquake —
everything is with me.

To protect this handful of life,
like drops forming rivers and oceans,
I merge with people.
But how hard it is to merge!
The ones ahead push me back;
the ones behind shove me to the sidewalk.
Standing among common people in the street,
crushed in the competition of survival —
I reach the cremation ground.

What am I? Who am I?
The cremation ground teaches wisdom —
the core truth is impermanence.

2072 Shrawan 15, Sukedhara

42.

Without You, How Can the Flute of Longing Play?

I am here alone — where are you?
Crying, living while dying, fading memories.

I never knew tears could become rivers.
I never knew when you would leave.
After you were gone, I crossed oceans of tears
but could not find you.

I said I would live smiling —
but drowned, unable to swim.
I try to stand, but the ground has sunk.
I try to fly, but my wings are cut.
I try to mend my heart — already shattered.
I try to meet the day — already drowned.

I am here alone — you are everywhere.
You are not here, yet I see you everywhere.
O pain, enough now —
without you, how can the flute of longing play?

Alok Series (2076 Poush 1, Dharan)

43.

(Anti-Poem)

The Final Waiting

Those familiar ones who had been waiting
wrote immediately on their Facebook walls
upon hearing the news —
“For the last time — heartfelt tribute!”

How easily they wrote —
“He was a close and good friend.”
With pomp they praised him and posted his photo.
Suddenly, a man who had just died
became great, trustworthy, revered.

While he was alive,
no one knew the pain he endured.
No one stood beside him in his small progress.
After his death, he became everyone’s beloved.
Tributes rain down upon him.
But what use is all that love and respect
if it was never given while he lived?

Life runs in rivalry and competition,
while death is always attached to breath.
Out of jealousy, no one congratulated the one who succeeded.
While alive, his existence was not acknowledged.

O you who did not offer love, support, or companionship
while he was alive —
I do not want such tributes after death.

If you can,
give a small smile to the living now.
Even if borrowed, bring a flower’s smile.
And, as long as you can, spread light everywhere.

2078 Ashadh 20

44.

The Intoxication of Beloved Life

The more life is lived,
the deeper its flavor flows.
As autumn’s barrenness spreads,
life’s intoxication rises higher.

When youth and beauty fade,
the bottle of life shatters.
The desire to die intoxicated—
remains unfinished.

If only life could begin again—
to live again with you.
To be drunk again on life.

But desires are buried in the grave of the heart,
dreams crushed in a moment.
The intoxication of life ends in chatter.
What is ours—
this beloved portion of life—
is only this.

45.

Life — An Examination

Every moment of life
is an examination.

Progress and decline, ascent and descent,
light and darkness, love and hate, victory and defeat —
moments of struggle and battle.

Carve Tolstoy into your heart —
wherever you stand,
fight like a warrior.
If Darwin was right,
life is reaching the destination through struggle.
Life is passing the examination.
Life itself is an examination.

Yet passing life’s exam
does not guarantee only happiness and greatness.
Those who fail are also living —
smiling like flowers in life’s garden.

Where is there no examination?
Love is tested. Hate is tested.
How deep can love go?
Life is tested every moment.

Those who take the test are greater
than those who give it.
Not everyone is Harishchandra.
Like Einstein who failed in math,
like the “foolish” lover Van Gogh —
you may fail the exam of love
and enter the battlefield carrying hatred.
Without love, even hatred becomes a weapon.
Victory and defeat are excuses —
giving the exam is the support of living.

Come — let us walk life’s journey hand in hand.
Until our paths part,
let us sit together and take the exam of love.
Pass or fail — fulfill the heart’s longing.
We came alone,
we must go alone into death’s lap.
To smile while embracing death —
that is the final exam to pass.

Questions asked in life’s exam:
Why can’t flowers be immortal?
Why do stars shine only at night?
Are there ponds of tears and blood?

Write the answer in the immortal corner of your heart:
Humanity, love, and faith are immortal.
Even if flowers fade, beauty remains.
Stars always shine in love.
In ponds of tears and blood,
brave warriors swim —
singing the song of life in gentle rhythm.

2064 Jestha, Dharan

46.

Am I Really Alone?

Are you walking alone?

Yes, I may appear alone —
walking and walking, perhaps I became alone.
Once we walked together — hungry, thin youths.
Perhaps we separated fighting over food.
Those who got it went ahead; those who didn’t fell behind.
In the dishonest war of survival,
in the relentless journey,
did I become alone? Or simply old?

The cunning went ahead, the simple fell behind.
In this endless walk — am I alone?

But no — how am I alone?

With me walk
beautiful thoughts, noble faith,
sweet and bitter experiences,
pure dreams of humanity.

Is a wave ever alone?
I have my vast universe within.
Invisible new worlds circle around me.
I walk, I keep walking, I make others walk —
how am I alone?

I am a strong group, a community, a society.
An institution, full wisdom, the voice within.
Beautiful feelings, beautiful creations —
how can beautiful life be alone?

You may appear alone —
but appearing and being are different.
Those surrounded by thousands may still be alone —
their inner souls dead.

I — who never stop lighting the beautiful lamp of creation —
though I seem alone,
am surrounded like a wave by the sea,
by cool breeze, by earth.
How am I alone?
Can beautiful thoughts and life ever be alone?

2068/9/12, Dharan

47.

So That I May Smile at the Final Moment

After my death, people will remember me as great,
placing flowers, vermilion, garlands, and ceremonial scarves
on my photograph,
bowing reverently before my image—remembering me.

But I, who am alive right now, smile and ask—
what meaning do tributes offered after death really have for me?

I realize this—
to be able to smile while I am alive is the truly great thing.
I imagine this—
to keep the heart pure while I am alive is the truly great thing.

But what is greatness anyway?
What great deed have I really done?
I keep questioning myself, reminding myself,
from head to toe, from toe to head,
from birth to death
(even though I have not died yet),
from Chhinamkhu to Dharan,
from Yangtang to the Koshi River.

I am not a swimmer who conquers waters.
I am not an acrobat who flies.
Yet I have crossed one entire life.
I have passed through
one continuous, subtle stretch of human time.

I have reached
that final shore everyone must reach—
the final resting place,
beyond which there is no other stop,
beyond which there is no further journey… perhaps.

Let the dusty melodies decorated in memory
play on their own today,
let them breathe freely on their own.

My grandfather used to walk wearing local hard shoes,
their nails striking the ground—
thak… thak… thak…
Every morning he would roam the village,
reaching each household.
He lived ninety-one years before departing this world.
Had he moved down to the plains,
might he have lived a hundred years?

My father departed at seventy-six.
Had he chosen to ride the vehicles of modern civilization,
might he have lived to ninety-one?

How long will I live?
Perhaps Chhinamkhu, Yangtang, and Dharan know.
Perhaps this mixed, semi-toxic modern age knows.

Living—how long one lives—
is not the main issue after all.
To be able to smile with contentment until the final moment—
that is the truly great thing.

Think—what did I do? What did I not do?
Did I not add even a grain
to this desert of human civilization?
Did I not add even a moment
to this stretch of time?

After all, what am I really?
Just a mind—
a fleeting instant passing through the gaps of time,
an old leaf falling in a vast forest.

And yet—
oceans are formed from countless droplets,
eternity is formed from countless instants,
the forest’s greenness is woven from the colors of fallen leaves.

So once again—
for the first and the last time—
let us play with, examine, and feel
this tree-like life.

This tired, ripened, wandering mind and life—
everyone must die someday, but
may there be no tears of regret in my eyes at death.

And if tears do come,
wash them away in your waters, O Yangtang,
for you will always remain,
forever humming
songs of truth, conscience, self-respect, love, life, and earth.

Make me forget, dissolve me
into the melodies of your songs.

If at life’s final moment
I cannot smile, remembering my life,
and tears still rise in my eyes—
wash them away, O Yangtang, in your waters,
in your pure, crystal waters.

Glossary (for cultural context)