Each day
As the sun
rises with pale, vacant eyes
my day begins with a body count
But my heart is an unyielding bag
You hit it
And yet it remains impassive
Solid and unmoved
Of course
I fear thrown bricks and flowing blood
But I detest those dull gentle days
As violent punches give me a better start
Bad news is good news, they say
I can’t be a hero in peace, anyway
We all flourish on others’ misery
Doctors need their patients’ pain
Lawyers their litigations
And Journalists wallow in tragedy
We are weeds feasting on decay
And every day
Sun sets by sprinkling its closing breath
On rivers stained deep crimson red
But who is there to care
I end my day counting my bountiful catch
Of tragic lives and unspoken despair
It is true that my heart beats
But still it is dead
Don’t you know?
I am a journalist.
Translation, by author himself | 28 December 2004, London
Mishra plans to translate more of his poems after he retires from politics. His Nepali poems have been compiled in ‘Rabindra Mishraka Kabita’. Please go to the BOOKS section to find out more about his poetry book and where to purchase it.
