In Kavre,

near the village, ‘Baluwa’,

I heard

the chatter

of young kids

not yet corroded

by the parade of the broken bricks

and the uprooted

roadside metal railings

in the streets of Kathmandu,

as they played

marbles on the buffalo fields.

It was a poem

I’d forgotten.

It was a jingle

not yet crushed

by the voracious jaws

of the bull dozers.

It brought back

in a rush

the Nepal

I’d known:

the rhythm of children

playing in streets

free of the racket,

and danger, of passing trucks.

In Kavre

near the village, ‘Baluwa’,

I heard the song

of life against life.

I sat on the porch

of the old hut

and through

the arched gateway

watched the

wisps of steam float upward

from wiry ferns

to kiss

the cuckoo

birds nest .