Sibu Dhakal
His mother
dropped him with grievance
between bricks and stones
when the sun had just risen
in a democratic morning ever since.
His father had fought
the dark night of the regime
spilling blood on the street.
Born with a sickle
he spent his entire juvenile age
cutting the grass in the country
and a complete youthful vigour.
He cut the grass in all weathers
whether the goose honks high or low
deluge or drought
landslide or flood.
He cut the grass on all occasions
during the movement and the war
even while bombarding in the forest
he was cutting the grass.
He cut all kinds of grasses
mountain grass
grass of the field
tall and short grass
grass for cows
grass for buffaloes
grass for goats
grass for all cattle.
But he consciously
never sold the grass
in the market
that is, he did no trade in grass
so he
did not earn any from grass
did not even dream big
made no plans
did nothing phenomenal
no social service
nor philanthropist act.
He raised his children
sent them to school
and got them married eventually
and soberly
he paid taxes to the government.
He has always been poor
even in his seventies
his gnarled hands are
enthusiastically mowing the grass.
