My Village Is Waiting

My village is waiting for me
The old tree, My childhood Eiffel,
My window to the distant world,
Must be breathing its last,
Keeping its eyes wide open
To see the boy who never climbed back.

The path that once kissed my barefoot,
The soil that once painted my pants,
The stones that endured my ruthless melodies,
Must be Waiting patiently,
For the feet that never returned.

The Chautari and Bar-Pipal
That once poured a shade of blessings,
Must still be standing as the sentinels,
Offering shadow to its own fallen leaves,
Asking the air about my whereabouts .

My house that stands like an old woman,
Imprisoning my warmth and laughter,
With a lock on its mouth,
Must be safeguarding my dreams and Future,
Where my tomorrow is still asleep.

The Dhungedhara, that quenched my thirst once,
Must have been thirsty now,
Cascading tears from its heart,
Each drop desperate to know if I am alive,
Must be waiting for my cupped hands.

My village must be waiting for me,
Like a mother waits for her lost child,
Praying at Bhimsen and Kalinchok,
Dreaming I return from thousands of miles.