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(originally written by Nepali poet Abhi Subedi, translated by me)
I speak out.
My speech,
a ripple of might,
that swiftly races with light.
None could prevent me form speaking out.
They hurled me into the storm.
The storm proved rhythm of my speech.
Color was splashed across my sky.
Color leapt up forming fire.
They smothered my mouth.
They chained my feet.
I set out pen in hand
on a journey of a millennium,
unsurpassed.
I speak out.
My speech,
a ripple of might,
that swiftly races with light.
Upon seeing me quiet,
Do not think I am lost in silence.
Bamiyan's silence
was a thunderous roar of speech.
In an appeal of a void speech,
we are all awake.
We have awoken.
One, who sought to restrain speech,
was washed out by the deluge of time.
One, who spoke resumed one's existence.
Cascading words from mouth like a stream;
pouring out colors in profusion
all over the sky of heart and time,
every road and courtyard
with an ebullience of spilling sunshine,
he rose creating history.
I speak out.
My speech,
a ripple of might,
that swiftly races with light.
Neither anyone barred the speech,
nor ceased the color to drip
into a portrait being painted,
nor could anyone chain
the speech filled with love.
Light is the sky of speech,
that breaks the maneuver of time
and cordon of the power blind.
The deluge of thousands of unbridled eyes and heart
inundate the whole of the history.
Martyr means
the name of one who leaves behind
the responsibility of speech
to us and the sky.
Speech therefore
is the name of the sky
that expands riding the horse of light,
the name of a dream
of salvation of us all.
I speak out.
My speech,
a ripple of might,
that swiftly races with light.
Om Mani Padme Huun. |
