Crooked World

For the crooked lines
There are wild sensations.

Come home
With an upset hammer
And you can still build your home.

The ranch where I stay
Is my paternal property.

I wake up to the simple dance
Of rain,
William Wordsworth is my Saraswati.

The hundred drummers
The whispering winds of sermons
Tell life stories in a laughter and happiness

Politicians don’t listen to poets—the new AI chants
This mantra.
The world below my blue eyed son
The world beneath my darling young one
Curses like the disfigured war general.

Peace was never in the air
But gunpowder became the chalk of hatred
The rain that will fall
Is going to be hard.

I have never forgotten the soul
Of my simple life,
Guided by god of philosophy
Not greater than freezing humanity.

I walk down the garden
The footpath knows my sorrow
I am the deserted sky
That could never cry
With a bag of duty calling
My mountain of struggle.

From the boot heel
Poetic justice is challenged
The world secretly adores
The philosophers and mistakes
Them for outlaws.

Bob Dylan is a literary saint.
This poem is inspired
By his music,
I have found my
Flower of world view
In his garden.

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© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

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