Not many people live here anymore.
And those who do, they look like,
they’ve forgotten how to laugh.
Me, too, has a strong-armed will,
a mean swing
for bats and balls, a
wild, mean, streak for elbowing.
Midnight pools catch the brilliant lanterns
carried by women in procession.
Deep into sleep
I follow them home.
The streets malinger beneath the tight-lipped sky.
Each stone draws like a weapon.
Each cooking fire is a funeral.
The stomach suffers immensely / It suffers from lack.
It’s midwinter and soon time for Losar / time also to cast aside our failures and regrets / and propitiate the deities for the New Year.
खिच्नोस् खिच्नोस् / कसरी बसम्? यसरी? / कि यसरी?
Broken stonework, sharp edges. I feel them / cutting my cheeks and chest. Maybe / someone took my legs?
Let’s sit beneath this sky
strung with nine hundred thousand lights
and drink bowls of this old chyāng