Saira hill

Still the same
that tyrant sun
has long since scorched the crown of Saira Hill.
A swarm of maiden winds
occasionally comes and kisses
what was once the hill’s beautiful face.

Their caress recalls
those Limbu girls,
those loving Sherpa women
arms entwined in the winter haze
dancing the paddy dance
at the Sankranti mela*

*(A sigh escapes: long, hollow)*

Below, the lonely Foudari* Thindewa* stream
drifts with time
like the hands that once played games by the riverside,
now withered with age.

Once upon this very hill,
rhododendrons bloomed proud
now they bloom like dreams
that never quite learned how.

From afar, the glittering Fungling* bazaar
struts, clad in borrowed beauty.
Young men and women flirt with the wind,
fashioning life
in the cosmetic parlor of make-believe.

And so,
Saira Hill now sits in silence
as does the front yard of the house.
When the koel sings its plaintive song,
how desolate it must feel
just like me.

The hopes of life
like the wild *buki* flower blooming
on the forest floor
are they lovely, or are they misshapen?
This hill can no longer decide.
Nor can my mind.

Saira Hill
Ah!
In some strange way, you feel like me,
standing stained in your own disfigurement
both of us,
rooted on this receding ground
called life

Author's Note

Sankranti mela : a small occasional market that opens for welcoming winter

Faudari: local language referring energetic

Thingdewa: Small stream of my village

Fungling: head quarter of my district

Buki: a kind of white flower found in high altitude

Reviews

[Sujan]

Thank you @Broken.buddy for giving your time in this poem. You not only read this poem but also deeply analysed with admiration and suggestion.
There is one saying " to be a good writer, first be a good reader". Thank you very much😊😊

[Broken.buddy]

I like your usage of free verse style in your works so far, Lines like “bloom like dreams / that never quite learned how” and “clad in borrowed beauty” are heartbreaking in their quiet power. I especially appreciated how cultural and geographical references (Limbu, Sherpa, Thingdewa, Fungling) were woven in without needing over-explanation — they added richness without alienating.

One suggestion: Let each metaphor breathe a little — the imagery is strong enough to stand alone in parts. Also, “Faudari” in the footnote might be a typo for “Foudari” as in the poem or is it the other way round?
the work feels like a mirror for the self.. This is the kind of piece that doesn’t shout but lingers — much like the hill itself.