Durga Prasad Pokhrel
I don’t write poetry
when I suffer a headache!
Enthusiasms in a fever pitch
turn into ironic dispositions.
Words written while on paracetamol
make my own emotions cry.
So I can’t write powerful poetry
when I’m knocked out.
A heated head and a drunkard see
nothing more than a new revolution!
Words are mirror to life;
they show what I am.
They do not lie
Even if I may try to cover them with my imageries.
I may try to make them unrecognizable
by moulding into symbols
but somehow they unravel their reality.
The words are never silent,
So they speak the truth.
Poems whisper weaker soothing words of comfort
when I suffer a headache.
I do not want to remember them—
those poems of mine, distressed by the delirium,
which are as feeble as myself.
They only sprawl inside a broken heart
they perceive only dirt in the beautiful face of the society.
If I suffer a headache,
They proclaim that all humanity has a headache.
I don’t want to write poetry
when I suffer a headache.
