The Purpose

Every morning-evening
Till date from my first day,
I’m adding words to complete
An invitation, to The Death agent.
I don’t know how many more-
Words I need to accomplish!
How long I should and can?
But, cock sure, I should- send it.

Perhaps, the agent, is waiting-
Has reached my door step;
Or standing by side near my bed.
I haven’t have aim so small, that
One accuses me of crime.
I lived. I’m living. I shall or not
But, the purpose is to live and remain alive.
In object would it;
I would see and touch. Even hug.
Of course, impractical.
It is in Verbs,
I too. That’s common.
It can mail me any time;
I see, the road ahead is in length.

The purpose has in box up
Unseen pleasure, merrymakings and,
Bliss of new comers-
And sanguine hope of my tiny great nation.
I am sent in a flat balloon form,
With a purpose-
To be filled and fly high above my horizon.
Yes, verbs I am using
With all possible verbs I am.

I see rocks growing
With vested wish lodged
In front of my tracks.
I see rivulets of yester days
Become rivers,
Longing ferries- verb made.
Yah;
Rocks I need to cross,
Ferries I need to provide,
Aptly, using all my verbs
Before the Invitation is accepted
And remain alive.

Tags: Bhutanese Literature Bhutani kavita R N Pokharel