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To the Morning Sky

Sky! You secretly nourish mere darkness that will devour you!
O! Of theft, O! You darkness
of sale,
of hyenas, of owls,
                of conspirators,
this empire of fearlessness!
Harshly thunder, break asunder
fade, turn grey, dissolve,
                Here, catch fire
with the offering of my silent agony.[1]

I am a person asleep,
unaware of being alive!
I am a looted human being
rich and deprived, innocent!
Murderers flee taking to the shadows,
I am murdered humanity, I cannot speak,
                Destiny shall speak with stings!

Boil! Shimmer!
Black cauldron of the unconscious,
bubble up!
Humanity sleeps, it does not die!
Night does not last forever!
All the colours of sorrow
                mixing into black
                becomes a colour like that of death,
becomes an obscured part of the unconscious.
She might rise through sacrifice
                this pond, the blood of one’s own heart,
finally offering
                one’s life-breath to an ethics that cannot be stolen!

There is a Nepali bird
that rises from its own ash, flapping its wings from Age to Age,
there is somewhere a Himalayan peak
where the wheels of the chariot of humanity shall once course.

O alas! All you sleepers!
You voiceless offerings of sorrow and agony,
each a snake-basket!
Yours is all the daily dejection, helplessness,
ignorance and defeat!
In this black cauldron
this will of itself one day
                boil in the light of the morning.

                                                                                Laxmi Prasad Devkota
                                                                                (Tr. Padma Devkota)

[1] Ājya in Nepali is purified butter which is poured into sacrificial fire as an offering. It increases the flame. The poet’s silent agony is here compared with this purified butter which increases the density of darkness.