Martyr’s Memorial

Dhananjaya Baskota

The crowd of people
Point towards him and inquire-
‘Who’re you, old brother?’
He celebrates solitude, or solitude he
Posters still losing his birth.
He has witnessed the procession
Almost every day; passed by him.
He, the warrior soldier,
He, the architect of my house,
Had trodden his feet over the flame
Of shell and stood still, and he finally
Makes me a plea-
‘Find me in the book gallery’.
Again stillness!
He had blasted the rocks
With the bullets
Defeated the missiles
With just a cleaver;
His image with wreathes

Turned into ashes with gunpowder
Why to ask his birth, then?
He is alienated, and
Abandoned memorial,
Yet keeps quiet, nor moans even
Being hammered over his head
He, the architect of my house,
With the hands marked bruised
With the forehead marked decayed
With the arms marked of no destiny;
Speechless that my architect
Endures the hammer
Struck on his head; and rather
Is peeping those who
Have wreaths of flowers with conceit
On their neck by
Trimming the flower
Again and again.

(Author Baskota is from Damak, Jhapa. He can be reached at