The Rara Rhymes, A poem by Krishna Prasad Acharya

The Rara Rhymes 

A poem composed by Krishna Prasad Acharya 

They call me the Rara Lake!

Is not it all fake?

How dare they name me in their words,

Without exploring me much more,

Beyond my view and beyond my hue,

Beneath my surface and down below my depth?


I might accept their words

Could they discard their holds,

With their measurements that fold

Their bogus intelligence and adventures showing them bold,

Without their capacity to explore my mystery untold.


They call themselves humans,

As a necessity summons

Them to distinguish themselves from others

Although none of them bothers,

While every other being around them shudders,

Noticing their hypocrisy and humbugs.


I am known to them

As a beautiful lake in wilderness,

Under the blue sky,

Below the bleak floating clouds,

At the top of high mountains,

Surrounded by dense forests,

Stretched over a vast area,

Existing for foods as well as goods,

For many creatures like and unlike them

That come around, upon, across, and into me to hem,

Glorifying their name and fame,

Viewing me as magical, enchanting, and scintillating with waves.


But let me clarify you, my dear friend,

With every evidence that I never pretend,

Like the so-called humans always tend

To gratify their desires with every new trend,

Boasting up their intelligence, pride, and memory never to bend.


I am a liquid always transparent

For the ablest eyes that can demystify,

The real state of my far-flung being,

By some supremely powerful cosmic origin,

And concern with my real pleading.


I am a swollen Eye,

Eternally sleepless and charmless,

Of a far-flung destiny completely isolated

From the humdrum of the city life.


My woes have a much longer history

Than that of the so-called human-kind.

I have been suppressed, oppressed, dominated, and exploited,

Ever since I came into my existence

By the supreme commander of my own quintessence.


My right to associate with my fellow beings

Has been snatched away and crushed

By the potent forces of cosmic tyranny and injustice,

Although I am still trying to get freedom and justice,

Through my own eternal meditation and practice.


My existence is always troubled

By the brutal and monstrous tyranny,

Of agents endowed with the cosmic forces,

Who come from nowhere and dwell around me,

Rejoicing my poor plight and misery.


Therefore, I always cry,

And a small stream of tears

Rolls down eternally through my westward side.


My tears are my vehicles,

To travel through the ridges and gorges,

Of the tough Rocky Mountains and wilderness,

Criss-crossing the roads of the so-called humans,

In order to meet the Super-soul of my being,

Existing, in their words, as Ocean or Sea,

And communicate about the way-out

Of my misery and poor plight.


Sometimes I blink due to some pain,

Meanwhile some creatures

Including the so-called humans

Drown in me and never return,

I have to transform them inside me

Although others outside dread of me,

And curse me in vain.


To look at me is easy,

But to see me is to make a point

That reveals what keeps me busy.


My existence is chained,

By my own destiny of a cosmic outcast,

Though I do not cease to celebrate my angst,

And therefore, I resist the name

They have given me,

As the Rara Lake

Because it is entirely fake.


I have some malleable part,

Which they exploit as a material for their art,

Of lying, cheating, deceiving, and gossiping,

Only for their benefits stealing my solace

And that’s why I strongly reject,

My labeling as the Rara Lake,

For it is entirely fake.


I keep on existing with my own rhymes,

That keep on transforming with different times,

Sometimes regular and sometimes irregular,

Sometimes in my middle, and sometimes at my end,

Setting and resetting my woes,

Inhaling and exhaling my blues,

So as to redeem my self,

And to merge me with the great,

And the supreme commander of my own quintessence.


So, please believe me,

I am not the Rara Lake,

As they always fabricate,

To boast up their so-called intellect,

Which is entirely bogus as well as fake.


Bio of the poet: Krishna Prasad Acharya is a Nepalese poet who holds MPhil in English from Tribhuvan University, Nepal.  


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