Kathmandu

Every morning in my bathroom,
I submerge myself in meditation,
cleanse my bowels
and attain fresh and anew.
I flush out all the dirt and dust
through the drainage
to the distant flowing river.

Beyond the river is
my urban city, Kathmandu,
with the long building,
like the chopping logs,
and the small houses
like the dented tin.
The toilets and bathrooms
from the buildings and houses
flow to the river and
burst the stench of
only the excrete and urine
As in the garbage pit.

In the shimmering riverside
lies the bloated belly
like the bursting balloon
of the petrified cow
by indigestion of the poisonous grass,
leaks out the pungent gas
from the rump of its anus
and reeks nauseous
during the summer time.

Crows picking at
crumpled hide and bones
thrown away by the slaughter house
squabbled over the food
with obnoxious sounds.

Grey vultures smell
the stench of the dead animals and
encircle above the sky.
A mangy lame dog
ousted from my urban city
picks its living from the waste
and spends every second of his life
in the wrecked house
nearby the river bank.
He licks his own wounds,
satisfies the taste of meat
and hangs around his death.

Obsessed with the reek of rotten meat,
the bridge connecting my city
gets vomited,
neither can move out of this place
nor can hold the passerby
fed up by reeks and stenches,
it might falls to the ground now or later.
Baseless, with no sands.
incapable to save itself from calamities
lingers for the rainy season to come
to breathe in peace.

When the Himalayas melt
into rushing rivers
washing all the dirt and dirt
away to the far ocean
to get my urban city cleaned.

Ocean licks by its tongue
though a bit of poisonous cynide
emitted out of my city,
swallows every wave of despair,
falls dizzy and giddy,
and surrenders to tranquility.

Outside the world reveals my city
as a coquettish beauty
of Sinhapata Mayaju.*

*

*An old fashioned lady of a folk tale In Nepal “Sinhapata Mayaju”