Blind Man On A Revolving Chair by Bhupi Sherchan

Blind Man On A Revolving Chair
by Bhupi Sherchan

All day
like dry bamboo
dozing on its own hollowness,
repenting;
all day
like a sick dove
pecking its own breast
scratching sores;
all day
alone like a pine stand
sobbing with unexpressed pain
all day
like a flat mushroom
far from the vast display of earth and sky
planting his legs in a small place,
covering himself with a tiny umbrella;
in the evening
when Nepal shrinking into Kathmandu
Kathmandu cast aside on New Road
and New Road -trampled
beneath the feet of many people,
breaking
into stalls shops and vendors of news tea and betel;
rumors dressed up in a motley array
walk back and forth,
clucking like a hen that has laid an egg
newspapers shuffle by
and darkness here and there
settles on the footpath
frightened
by the glare of the cars
A beehive collapses in my brain
and terrified of drone and sting
I rise
like the souls on Judgment Day
and lost without “Lethe” of oblivion
I dive into a glass of wine
and forget the days that brought me here
my previous incarnation and death
In this way always
the sun rises from a tea kettle
and always in an emptied glass of wine
the sun sets
The earth on which I sit is revolving–as usual
I alone am not acquainted with
the changes all around,
a stranger to the passing scenes,
the attractions,
like a blind man at a fair
strapped down in a revolving chair

translated by Wayne Amtzis with Sulochana Musyaju