Many times, on my way to Thamel,
From Ason and Jamal, 
As I instinctively lean away 
From the rot and sewage.

Creeping out towards my feet,
I am accosted by children,
With distended bellies running alongside me,
When I stop, they congregate at my side.

Calling me dai and begging for money,
I look into their eyes,
And see the death of a generation,
The kind of political malformation.
An acutely diseased bureaucracy,
We suffer today don’t serve,
Or protect our future citizens,
And it is here that I begin to wonder.

If and when foreign aid is genuine,
And when it is self-serving,
Glance beyond these kids,
And you too will see.

A million miles of paths,
Lacing the wilderness,
Where lost dreams,
And hopes are played out.

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