An Old Railway Line
In the death chamber confines
The soul of my mind
Handcuffed by tragedy
Sentenced to death penalty
Just close to a blink of my eyes
With an illusionary greetings
Of long lives
Standing before me
Face to face – My death.
Startled I’m like the whirl
Of the breeze on cobwebs
Hanging in every corner
Of this death chamber
Not in use for centuries
Neither I can blink my eyes
Nor breathe my breath
Asleep is the fireplace
With only ashes
Decomposed in wetted firewood
Neither the wisp of fire
Nor the glow of flame.
Rusty hinges on the door
Perforated by rust
Through which holes
Smirk the gloomy bored moon
Seeking shelter for a night
A moment of unpleasant and discontent
Moans like a wild beast
Severe wounds
In inner of the minds
Moans like a cry of spasm
By unwilling sexual desire
Seduced by the enemy
In the defeated war
Echoed from the walls around
Fearing to have an ear
Will shrunk
In the emptiness of the room
At any time the electric shock
May turn the body to ashes
Only a fistful of my breath
Remaining in my body
Will hurried to rebel by
Shattering every words of my poem
Like the old railway lines
Discarded after the war
Hides its originality
In the rust and grassy grooves
Rebels of another kinds
Like the silent crater of sleeping volcano
Erupts and scatters the lava on the earth
Every word of my inner minds
That’s collected in the coarse paper
Only sensed by my wounded heart
Indeed it’s my poem.
September 11, 2003
Copyright © Pushpa Tuladhar | Year Posted 2005
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