During the rainy days,
my brother could sleep at home;
he needn’t go to school,
he needn’t go to the cornfields
to watch out the parrots.
He needn’t even go to the vacant fields
to play football.
He never learnt it himself…
I, too couldn’t teach him that
life is not always the same.
He loved the spring season too.
The season when the sprouts grow into the trees.
When the cuckoos sing with their pleasant voice,
when flowers smile like children,
when the children smile like the flowers…
The season when the ‘Whitman’ grass
grows tall and high
onto the mighty sky.
With every spring,
the memories of my childhood
come rushing inside my head.
I remember my father
showing the horizon above the mighty hills.
I remember my childhood friends
with whom I played the pranks.
I remember the moments of
fights and the hugs.
I remember a song of melancholy
that everyone used to sing in our village.
I go to my father’s house
and watch my mother’s face.
I remember –
the season of spring
brought a joy in our air.
my father’s horizon;
And the reminiscence
Of the past.
And I remember
who once went to the woods
and never came back.
Poet’s Bio: Hailing from Kathmandu, Nepal; Civa Bhusal, 21, is a student of Computer Engineering and he loves writing poetry and fiction, in both Nepali and English. His works have been published in The Republica, The Himalayan Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Applicant and The Writer’s Asylum.
Illustration by Alan Van Every (Featured image on the front page)
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