Kavre

In Kavre,
near the village, ‘ Baluwa’,
I heard
the chatter
of young kids
not yet corroded
by the parade of the broken bricks
and the uprooted
roadside metal railings
in the streets of Kathmandu,
as they played
marbles on the buffalo fields.
It was a poem
I’d forgotten.
It was a jingle
not yet crushed
by the voracious jaws
of the bull dozers.
It brought back
in a rush
the Nepal
I’d known:
the rhythm of children
playing in streets
free of the racket,
and danger, of passing trucks.
In Kavre
near the village, ‘ Baluwa’,
I heard the song
of life against life.
I sat on the porch
of the old hut
and through
the arched gateway
watched the
wisps of steam float upward
from wiry ferns
to kiss
the cuckoo
birds nest.