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Face
by Mukul Dahal

I drive to the sea for the love
of its blue expanse and a family
of wind, gulls, fish, sailors and ships.

             From the depth of the sea a hill rises,
              from the heart of the hill
              noises: dogs' bark, hens' cackle, birds' twitter, children's
              scream and mother's call for supper.

              I reach out for the hill.
              It is tugging at the trousers of the Himalayas
              like a young boy beside his father.

              Faces pass before my eyes.
              I go loafing with them.
              I go into the dark,
              the air heavy with smells of cooking.

              The mela's up on the hill there.
              The wind swings, the loiterers sing selos and dohori,
              drink Tongba, perform dhan nach.

Here in the sea the heart of the hill flashes like a mirror.
I plod ahead, closer to the hill,
It sinks like a drop and vanishes.
I perspire in the cold,
sweat beads cover the brow.
I wipe the sweat off and search my face.

 

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