Laying down an exhausted day
on the bosom of the hill
the sky at the moment
is wrapped up
in the dark embrace of
a blind night.

The Dharahara
standing bolt upright on its self esteem,
and the Clock Tower,
to utter an alarm of consciousness,
are sound asleep in tune with the tranquil night.

covered in the thick blanket of darkness
lain flat on the slumbering earth
the night, now,
brazenly munching shamelessness
is pretending to have fallen asleep.

On a sleepless, blind night,
looking for a handful of light around the lamp,
hurling themselves in the pond of fire,
a swarm of moths
under the spell of light
are embracing an abrupt death.

Breaking into fragments
its undivided existence,
the leaping flame of the lamp,
is getting transformed
into the fatal tongue of lizard,
into the avtar of Surasa
lolling out its tongue,
the lizard
is swallowing the golden dreams
of the wounded moths.

Unaware of the wiles of conspiracy,
singeing their fluffy wings,
receiving burns in their calm heart,
grappling with death every night,
witnessing and bearing
generations of their kind perish,
and to prevent the invasion
of the lizard upon the light,

once again,
announcing a fresh fierce war,
and awaiting a glorious victory
poor moths, around the lamp,
are repeating
a process.