Details |
Umanath Kattel Poem
A teacher,
A strange identity,
Nameless, without a surname,
Wordless, without recognition.
A shared identity,
A heartfelt tale in silence,
A rebellion hidden within words.
He, the veiled revolutionary,
An unnoticed worker,
Helplessly ill, a passive observer,
A bearer of others’ dreams,
Yet one who has lost his own.
The teacher, a silent rebel.
His faltering steps
Leave invisible marks
On society’s rugged surface.
Yet, those very feet
Build bridges carrying dreams,
Helping others cross over,
While he remains stuck on the edge.
The teacher,
An insignificant creature within the school,
His name etched
On society’s crumbled pillars,
A bearer of nameless glory.
He is the sun’s ray,
Rising each morning,
But forgotten by evening.
His students turn into stars,
Shimmering in distant skies,
While his identity
Remains clouded in darkness.
The teacher who shares knowledge,
Ends his life
In a darkened room.
Politicians call him a “nation-builder,”
And he feels pride,
Yet in their speeches,
He is a subject of mockery.
For they claim,
“Knowledge isn’t for sale,”
But his self-respect
Is sold for mere pennies.
His dreams
Are auctioned in the open market.
Though his words move the world,
The teacher, the giver of words,
Becomes worthless merchandise,
Unbought, unnoticed.
The teacher,
A hidden figure of society,
An invisible jester,
A shadow behind the performers’ stage.
Here, the players may change,
But he remains constant,
Worn out, patched, and torn.
He teaches others to conquer the world,
Yet he himself,
Always defeated, always despondent.
The teacher,
A silent character, a supposed pride,
A helpless existence, a subject of ridicule.
His silence deepens the darkness.
Now, he must speak.
His words must cry out the truth,
His seeds of knowledge
Must root a revolution.
Fear is his enemy,
He must cast it aside.
He is the sun,
That dies at dusk,
But returns each dawn,
Carrying a new light.
He has forgotten his identity,
He is the silent rebel of society,
Whose light
Will birth a new morning.
Copyright © Umanath Kattel | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Umanath Kattel Poem
I returned home, weary from the day,
The beggar girl was at the gate again.
Her father works the land, yet poverty remains,
She asks for five rupees, quiet in her pain.
My son, just her age, once asked with care,
"Why does she beg when her parents work there?"
"Farmers stay poor, though they toil and sow,
Those who buy and sell reap riches we don’t know."
His words cut deep; I felt as poor as she,
A teacher, yet struggling with shame to see.
At midnight, Buddha’s renunciation came to mind,
While my wife slept, untouched by what I couldn’t find.
In silence, I walked the streets so cold,
Towers gleamed while farmers lay in huts, untold.
Labor’s worth is often left unsung,
The rich thrive while the poor remain young.
My son’s question lingered in the dawn’s light,
The beggar girl’s face still soft, her plea polite.
I teach, yet cannot afford the best for him,
While others live lavishly, their lives dim.
Merchants sell, doctors heal, but all are torn,
Labor earns little, while fame is adorned.
The farmer’s hand builds with pride,
Yet sleeps beneath bridges, with no wealth to hide.
The scales of justice tilt and sway,
Money buys the worth it displays.
Until balance finds its rightful place,
The poor will still ask for five rupees with grace.
Copyright © Umanath Kattel | Year Posted 2024
|