KITES

It is difficult to write a poem,

especially in a winter morning,

when you have your hands tucked in a warm quilt

and they refuse to come out.

It is difficult

when your mind wanders to too many things and places,

and the television and the internet  feed you with news

of hunger and hatred.

What good is a poem,

when poems are just words in black and white,

and no one has time to read them.

What good is a poem,

when the world has gone

superficial and gaudy ,

 like those selfies

created  over applications that claim to make you look beautiful.

My poetry rusts in my soul,

and my heart is parched,

almost like those Dashain skies with absolutely no kites.                                                                                                                                                                     Chirag Bangdel