by Bhuwan Thapaliya
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Bhuwan Thapaliya, 28, is a poet who hails from Nepal. Writing is not a hobby for him. It’s the way of his life. It is not the transient desire of his mind, but the eternal desire of his heart. He has cherished only one desire and goal that by the messages of his poems he may become instrumental in mitigating the woes and miseries of mankind.
Bhuwan is one of the most widely read Nepali poet writing in English in the West. His writing is imbued with the art and culture of Nepal that he grew up with. Bhuwan has written more than 1500 poems but his writing is not only about statistics: it is about spreading the message of global peace and making Nepal known to the outside world. He is Nepal’s unofficial ambassador.
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On the green terrain of the fortitude,
I have built a house out of the broken bricks,
and the pebbles, they had thrown at me.
And have painted my rooms bright, with the redness
of the volcanic wound, they had bequeathed me.
And I’ve planted the thorns they had pierced
me with, in the garden, hoping to see them
blossom into the flowers of the serenity.
O God! I thank them for giving me everything.
What they’d hurled at me were you, yourself to me.
“The beauty of that moment,” I shall never, never forget!
They were throwing broken bricks at me, and I was
building a house with it. I was weaving my dreams with it.
Now, the course of my life is as sweet as the breeze.
Inside the house there is a new world waiting for me.
Had they known then that, I would be using
those bricks and the pebbles to build my
house, then they would not have gifted me
those ingredients. Poor them, what was rubbish
to them, turned out to be too valuable for me.
They were blinded by disgust; they saw nothing.
Ah! But I saw you in those bricks, and piled them up,
until I build a house………until I build a house.
Proud, very proud I am now, I shall be telling
my kids and my grand kids, with a silken smile
on my face, some where in time that,
I had built a house out of the broken bricks,
they had hurled at me…they had hurled at me.
And had painted my rooms bright, with the redness
of the volcanic wound, they had bequeathed me.