Bibek Khanal

Your touch upon my hands, Is like a river, That flows over a shriveled artery Of mine,

I am,  As happy as the cool snow  Its warmth,  Never makes me cold.

As dull as my life  Seems the city  No pleasure to see anywhere  Gloom of sadness everywhere

A piece of waste Whose existence in junkyard A class among the wastes Marking each of them with a value

Winning to win Is far more different than Losing to win Do wonder,