Gopal Prasad Rimal
Mom, will he come?
“Yes honey, he will
as comes the morning sun, scattering light.
You will see in his girdle
a dangling sword, silvery as dewdrops.
He shall fight the evil!
When he comes, you will grope as in dreams,
but he will come in a form
far more extreme than the snow and fire.”
Is that so, Mom?
“Yes, when you were born, I had hoped to see his image
in your tender countenance;
in your childish grin I had sought
his austere form
and his enchanting voice in your lisp.
But that rapturous music
did not make you its flute!
My youthful dreams constantly hoped
that you were he.
Yet, he is bound to come, and he will.
I am a mother; as the fountain of all forces of creation
I can claim
that he will come.
It is not a dull dream I am dreaming.
When he comes
you will not sprawl
in my lap this way.
You will listen to the truth,
enchanted, as it were a story.
You can acquire the power to see,
bear and accept him yourself.
In spite of my appeasements,
you shall go as does a warrior before the battle,
consoling his mother’s stubborn mind.
And no longer will I need to stroke
your hair, as though you were sick.
Let’s see, he will come as tempest
and you shall follow as a fallen leaf.
Long ago, when it fell from the earth
and spilled as the moon does
all ignorance had fled.
He shall come; you shall awake.”
Will he come, Mom?
The hope of his arrival stirs up my heart,
as sweet dawn stirs the throats of birds.
“In fact, he will,
as does the morning sun, scattering light.
Here I wake up, and make a go.”
*
‘My youthful dreams constantly hoped
that you were he.’
[Trans: Mahesh Paudyal. Source: Dancing Soul of Mount Everest, edited by Momila.]
