The world is scarred.
One day I am forced
To color the darkness.
I add the light colors
With hopeful recollections.
I carry my childhood bag
With all the goodies.
Beauty is a myth they say.
The world is a myth too,
Now.
It seeks peace
But supplies war weapons.
There is a breach of silence,
There is a massacre
Of childhood patience.
Whisper no more the sermons,
The hymns are like the lost kites.
We need a bed of flowers,
The music of quietness
Is the healing sutra.
.
© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor