-Laxmi Prasad Devkota
Translated by: Padma Devkota
The tip of the needle has pricked my heart,
O Dalit Brother!
The worm has written the nation’s fate
on the perishing leaf.
Man, the image of God, despises man.
The same flesh, the same blood;
one oppresses the other.
First they bottle the turnip and then call it pickle:
Man causes man to rot and consumes him like flies.
When I see this, my blood begins to boil.
The exploiter is the alleged guru; you, his acolyte.
How is it that it’s not yet time to open up your eyes?
Dogs lick us, men spit on us, O Dalit Brother!
They kick us like a ball.
Perhaps an earthquake will expose the suppressed gold mine.
Perhaps the volcano will liberate the suppressed voice.
Divinely elegant are the angels and gods of heaven.
We are naked, we are hungry, exposed to wintry daggers.
We are sewage, we stink, we are mere worms.
The temple is of gold, god is of stone,
religion of whim of hashish.
This is simply too much for us. Do we have any rights?
In decayed clothes and putrid skin, the blood dries up,
O Damai Brother!
The false ones drink red wine.
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