“ The winter has arrived,” said my mother,
bracing against the frigid Annapurna’s wind
and the spitting snow.
“I have seen mountains of snow in my life.
But I have never seen
an acrimonious snow as these,” she says.
“The strong and the cunning will prevail
in the valley now but the weak shall perish.
It will be a real battle for survival,” she murmured.
We looked at each other, and in desperation
my mother hid her facein between her palms.
150,000 smart licenses distributed in two months, clearing back...
Tears were trickling down from those eyes,
flowing demands of impartiality
for virtuous political practices.
I did not know what to do.
My eyes were moist too,
in pursuit of democratic politics.
Eons of pain and snow-melt
have etched steep canyons
into the road less plateau
of our existence.
The Sun has not risen yet.
We’re waiting for the Sun
to evaporate our soul.
We are waiting for the Sun
to reach the heavenly precincts
of our emancipation.
Far away from this world.
Far away from this world
of the snow and the sun.
Far away, far away
from the threshold of hope.
And sleep as a lost child
who has finally found safety
in the mother’s lap.
