Sanki Tara – Shrawan Mukarung

कसैलाई वास्ता छैन– उसको आगमनको ।

बरु छ–
भर्खरै,
त्यो तरुनी चन्द्रमाको हातबाट एउटा निरीह फूल झरेको
खेतको आकाशलाई सानो झरीको दाग लागेको
धानको बाला थोरै उठेको
लाटोकोसेरो ढिलो उडेको

बरु छ–
भर्खरै,
त्यो बूढो बाजेको धार्मिक श्लोकभित्र सलबलाइरहेको पहेँलो
कामुकता
त्यो मौन इनारबाट आइरहेको मिश्रित पुरुषवीर्य
र आलो बालिका रगतको गन्ध

बरु छ–
भर्खरै,
बिच्किएको बच्छ्यूझैँ सगरलाई चिल्दै
ओलम्पिकबाट आआफ्नो भूमि फर्किरहेका राता हवाईजहाजहरू
र तिनका राता आवेगहरू

कसैलाई वास्ता छैन – उसको आगमनको
तर ऊ,
सन्किरहेकछ, स्वप्नवत् सन्किरहेछ–
भर्खरै,
त्यो पूर्वको पहाडमाथि निस्केको युवाकविजस्तो तारा ।

Ye Naulo Manchhe – Shrawan Mukarung

ए नौलो मान्छे सुन यो सहरमा तिमी एक्लो छैनौ
बाटो हराएका
माटो गुमाएका
यो ठूलो संसारमा तिमी एक होइनौ

कति छन् यहाँ आफ्नो नाम खोज्दा बेनाम भएका
कति छन् यहाँ अनुहार खोज्दा पग्ली झरेका
ए नौलो मान्छे…

यहाँ छन् हजारौँ दुःखले गलेका मानिसका आँखा
यहीँ छन् हजारौँ मान्छे अटाउने देवताको काख
ए नौलो मान्छे…

तिमीले टेकेको गोलो यो पृथिवी तिम्रो पनि हो
यो धर्ती, यो आकाश अहँ हुँदैहोइन बिर्ता

Prem Parwa – Shrawan Mukarung

आरुका फूलहरूबाट तपतप झरिरहेका शीतहरू आँखाभरि थापेर
आकाशगङ्गालाई हेर्दा
मेरो राजा !
मैले हजुरलाई देखेँ

बारीको डिलैडिल उफ्रिहिँडेँ मृगझैँ
माथिका यी अँध्यारा पर्वतहरू
तलको त्यो रेलको रित्तो बाटो, नुनिलो आभास…
जम्मै बिर्सिएँ मैले !

मान्छेहरूले वर्षौदेखि पुज्न छाडेको त्यो निरीह मन्दिरलाई
मान्छेहरूले वर्षौदेखि फर्की नहेरेको त्यो नियास्रो द्यौरालीलाई
स्वर्गको लालसामा फेरि
ढोगेँ मैले ।

हजुर आउनुहोला भनेर
अनिदा यी सपनाका चरा र छुङछुङती नाचिरहेको हातका
चुराहरू
मनभित्र त्यसै–त्यसै पोको पारिराखेको सरमलाग्दा के–के, के–के
कुराहरू
यी घरका आशातीत झ्याल–ढोकाहरूलाई
सुम्पिएँ मैले ।
लौ हजुर त झन्–झन् अकासिँदै…?

प्रेम भनेको दृष्टिको अनन्तता पो रहेछ
स्वर्ग भनेको हृदयको उचाइ पो रहेछ
ईश्वर भनेको आफ्नो सबभन्दा प्यारो वस्तु पो रहेछ
वर्षौदेखि बज्न नपाएका यी कुण्ठित घण्टहरूलाई बेस्कन बजाउँदै
चिच्याएँ म–

ए हिँड्दाहिँड्दै निख्रिजाने उकाली–ओराली !
ए बस्दाबस्दै थकाइ मेटिजाने चप्लेटी !
कलिला छाँगा, रुपौला रात
र छुनछुनाउँदा चियाका पातहरू !

कसले भन्छ : यी बतासका झोक्काहरू हाम्रा प्रेमचिह्नहरू
होइनन्
कसले भन्छ : यी दहमा खसेका पातहरू हाम्रा प्रेमपत्रहरू होइनन्
साँघुरो भो मलाई झरीका हारीहरू
साँघुरो भो मलाई सम्झनाका घारीहरू

आरुका फूलहरूबाट तपतप झरिरहेका शीतहरू आँखाभरि थापेर
आकाशगङ्गालाई हेर्दा
मेरो राजा !
मैले हजुरलाई देखेँ ।

Valentine – Elinor Morton Wylie

Too high, too high to pluck 
My heart shall swing. 
A fruit no bee shall suck, 
No wasp shall sting.

If on some night of cold 
It falls to the ground 
In apple-leaves of gold 
I’ll wrap it around.

And I shall seal it up 
With spice and salt, 
In a carven silver cup, 
In a deep vault.

Before my eyes are blind 
And my lips mute, 
I must eat core and rind 
Of that same fruit.

Before my heart is dust 
By the end of all, 
Eat it I must, I must 
Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet 
By some strange art; 
Wild honey, I shall eat 
When I eat my heart.

O honey cool and chaste 
As clover’s breath! 
Sweet Heaven I shall taste 
Before my death. 

Magic – Ovid

YE elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, 
And ye that on the sands with printless foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 
When he comes back, you demi-puppets that 
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, 
Whereof the ewe, not bites; and you whose pastime 
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, 
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d 
The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, 
And ‘twixt the green sea and the azured vault 
Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak 
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory 
Have I made a shake, and by the spurs, pluck’d up 
The pine and cedar; graves at my command 
Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em forth 
By my so potent art. 

Love And War – Ovid

Lovers all are soldiers, and Cupid has his campaigns: 
I tell you, Atticus, lovers all are soldiers.
Youth is fit for war and also fit for Venus.
Imagine an aged soldier, an elderly lover! 
A general looks for the spirit in his brave soldiery; 
a pretty girl wants spirit in her companions.
Both stay up all night long, and each sleeps on the ground; 
one guards his mistress’s doorway, one his general’s.
The soldier’s lot requires far journeys; send his girl, 
the zealous lover will follow her anywhere.
He’ll cross the glowering mountains, the rivers are swollen with a storm; 
he’ll tread a pathway through the heaped-up snows; 
and never whine of raging Eurus when he sets sail
or wait for stars propitious for his voyage.
Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night, 
and blizzards interspersed with driving rain? 
The soldier reconnoiters among the dangerous foe; 
the lover spies to learn his rival’s plans.
Soldiers besiege strong cities; lovers, a harsh girl’s home; 
one storms town gates, the other storms house doors.
It’s a clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe
and slay an unarmed host by force of arms.
(That’s how the troops of Thracian Rhesus met their doom, 
and you, O captive steeds, forsook your master.) 
Well, lovers take advantage of husbands when they sleep, 
launching surprise attacks while the enemy snores.
To slip through bands of guards and watchful sentinels
is always the soldier’s mission – and the lover’s.
Mars wavers; Venus flutters the conquered rise again, 
and those you’d think could never fall, lie low.
So those who like to say that love is indolent
should stop: Love is the soul of the enterprise.
Sad Achilles burns for Briseis, his lost darling: 
Trojans, smash the Greeks’ power while you may! 
From Andromache’s embrace Hector went to war; 
his own wife set the helmet on his head; 
and High King Agamemnon, looking on Priam’s child, 
was stunned (they say) by the Maenad’s flowing hair.
And Mars himself was trapped in The Artificer’s bonds: 
no tale was more notorious in heaven.
I too was once an idler, born for careless ease; 
my shady couch had made my spirit soft.
But care for a lovely girl aroused me from my sloth
and bid me enlist in her campaign.
So now you see me forceful, in combat all night long.
If you want a life of action, fall in love.

To Life’s Pilgrim – Geoffrey Chaucer

FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;

Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;

Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o’er all.

Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can’st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver ’tis no drede.

That thee is sent receive in buxomness :
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.

Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!

Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,

And Truth thee shalt deliver ’tis no drede.

Since I From Love – Geoffrey Chaucer

Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I ne’er think to be in his prison ta’en;
Since I am free, I count him not a bean.

He may answer, and saye this and that;
I do no force, I speak right as I mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name struck out of his slat,
And he is struck out of my bookes clean,
For ever more; there is none other mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

Proverbs – Geoffrey Chaucer

What shul these clothes thus manyfold,
Lo this hote somers day?
After grete hete cometh cold;
No man caste his pilche away.

Of al this world the large compas
Yt wil not in myn armes tweyne;
Who so mochel wol embrace, 

A Cook – Geoffrey Chaucer

They had a cook with them who stood alone For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone, Sharp flavouring powder and spice for savour. He could distinguish London ale by flavour, And he could roast and boil and seethe and fry, Make good thick soup and bake a tasty pie… As for blancmange, he made it with the best.