“Progress”

by Chittadhar ‘Hridaya’

The mind of a lunatic races on
in disarray deranged and rearranged
no point or pause for rest
Is this what we call progress?

The monsoon clouds, yes, billowing up
while the river runs down downward still
mist and snowy peaks, course of all rivers
If uncrossed, can it be progress?

Leaving the home life, starting anew
beginning the monk’s life
ends up the same too
Is this what we call progress?

The crow, in many ways adept,
is so-called clever yet
duped by the cuckoo, eggs exchanged
Shall we speak of this as progress?

Here we’ve arrived, but how much remains
like strolling around a huge rotund well
if travelling east, we wind up west,
Is circling the globe really progress?

A bamboo shoot rises as if to touch heaven
then battered by snowfall bends
hunched backed and humbled by age embraced
Shall we speak of youth is progress?

So too, Garuda, the great who flies
set him aside, for the ant unwavering
steady arrives, as he must as his place
Can his pace be counted as progress?

Translated by David Hargreaves नेपाल भाषं ब्वनेत थन क्लिक याना दिसं