Inside the room, the grasses are green
but outside, the soil is barren and dry.
Beloved! Tonight, yes, tonight, we shall
make love, not in our room, but outside,
in the field, and stimulate the soil to fertility
beneath the stars, dripping glory drops.
O, and let those, who conspire to obliterate
our unity, know that we too are the trustees
of the soil and it is our obligation to sow,
the crops of life in the core of death field
enshrouded by the reeking smell of bullets,
and the grenades of the divided patriotism
at a critical juncture of the human history-
burnt by the blast waves of the compressed time.

Copyright 2005 Bhuwan Thapaliya