Mountains are Memories
Borrowing few pints of green loneliness
from the mountains of Baitadi
The road winds-unwinds, like a drunk.
It keeps folding unto itself, underneath
the shades of UFOs
made of silver and skeletal clouds.
A blanket of sad vapors
from the sleepless Mahakali,
just before the ghosts of evening find me.
An unknown longing, an ache you
can’t name. The road and the traveler,
we both are haunted. We both are shapes of
question-marks, anxieties and bends.
My boss asks the driver:
"How far is Darchula now?” I don't
even want to know, I don't want to
make a sound. The silence is too
God, too frail to touch.
[Baitadi, Darchula: The far-western Nepal;
Mahakali: One of the largest rivers of Nepal]