The moon is sad 

The stars are sick 

Nature is mad 

I am no longer myself 

The silence that lives in me 

isn't peace. 

In the cemetery rests 

the child of my rebellious memory. 

Nature is mad, 

mad with anger. 

I am no longer myself.

 

Communicating

by B. Thangden (Para Limbu)

Let your pain die 

and tears flow 

sense the peace, 

taste drying salt. 

And find solace 

as you share with me 

the beauty of 

your words.

 

translated by Jack Agueios

 

Thus it has been. On the beach some bathers jump in to swim in competition. They should arrive as fast as possible to the boat that approaches. The sun is as radiant as the embrace I want to give you. I touch your body embalmed in oils. I moisten my lips with yours. I try to embrace you. A wide sea saturated by sargasso covers the sand. Like the oil stains at night secretly slide razing the fish and their neighbors, annihilating the bud of the sea and the color of the sandstone. I try to embrace you. Let me be that tangle of sargasso that barely lets the bathers walk. Let me glop myself like the black stain that covers the pelicans. I try to embrace you with an embrace which will near us to the straight line of death.

 

Thus it goes on being. At night I confuse you with those women who walk at the edge of the 65th Infantry Road. I see them from behind with their strong muscles sustaining the jeans they wear. Their tits barely covered by some cheap sweater. They walk alone, improvident, their lips pursed with angers like you take me when you open my web and its spiders. Try to squeeze me now with you salivous mineral. Bite this last without pity, listen to its nocturnal wavebreaks. Above, the noon and the some shooting star with its tail bursting.

 

Thus it has been. Here seated I meditate about my woman. Obsessed she has rushed into the street looking for me, to find each of my footprints. She has told me she will not delay in accusing me, in biting my skin and its foul odors. Here I am trying to explain to myself that my inclination is replete with beings that suck from my fat tissue. My room is only an empty box. I try to love her. Wildly she takes her clothes, opens its delicate lip and tangled we cross the holes of its wood. The territory of webs opens. The room is impregnated with its habitual perfume. I hear, I hear the disconnected meowing of her cat. I feel, I feel her rabid teeth pressing my lips. I smell, I smell her foul odors. I bat, I bay despite its not being a night full of moon and I am hairless. Even thus, I love her. That's what it has always been about, about love and its chronic complaints.