भ्वाइस खबर
The Soil Remembers (Poem)
– Tomnath Uprety
The dawn is not light but a psalm
hummed by barefoot winds,
gathering the fragrance of wet fields
in their clandestine hymn.
Morang is not earth—
it is an ancient manuscript,
each furrow a syllable of sacrifice,
each grain of rice a pilgrim’s offering.
The rivers are not rivers—
they are serpents of silver lament,
shedding their scales upon the plains,
whispering of rebirth after ruin.
In the hush before harvest,
the horizon bleeds saffron,
and the plough is a monastic bell
calling men to the liturgy of sweat.
The farmer’s hand is not calloused—
it is an altar where seeds kneel,
and the monsoon is a rosary
dripping prayers into thirsty roots.
Morang’s festivals are not festivals—
they are lanterns stitched to the dark,
breathing light into veins of stone,
teaching the dusk how to believe again.
Faith here is not a temple alone—
it is a barefoot child chasing dusk,
a grandmother braiding the sun into her hair,
a father’s whisper, “Grow, even in storm.”
And when the winds call the banyans to dance,
the air is not merely air—
it is the breath of ancestors,
chanting, “Karma is the covenant with dawn.”
The soil remembers your footsteps,
each footprint a verse,
each verse a promise
to rise when the river breaks,
to bloom when the sky weeps,
to stand unshaken in the hymn of rain.
Morang is not a place—
it is the soul’s own threshold,
where labor is the sacrament,
and hope, the final harvest.
भ्वाइस खबर
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