Letter to Lord Byron

GAURAV BHATTARAI

Hello Byron, residing in Promised Land, Listen to me!

We are seeking pleasure in the pathless woods; in a countryside where no one intrudes; by the excavated rural lands; by the tree and by the rivulets; where nature heals and gives strength; sitting on wet logs and reclining under trees, great things are done when friends and nature meet.

Of dew drops we know that fall on our shoulders from rhododendron bud; of wet and wildness we know; of blossoms and butterflies we sing; under woods and weeds we bask; we taste the air and feel the rain-soaked sand; we are lost in green and yellow and amid all inexplicable colors. No get to know, when nature answers all.

A promising setting sun bids farewell with a promise to shine back tomorrow. Birds..clouds...hills...despite potholes and slippery caves.... sunset, rivulets, friends and nature.... despite impending night and darkness....streams..woods..butterflies... despite the road less traveled. With grace in trees, Shwraswati —goddess of knowledge— in the running brooks, commandments on stones, and my lord! you, in everything.

Byron, We hear voice from over the sea: a voice of the fearless and the free. A voice from the blue sky overhead: a voice that the mother of mankind made.A voice from the hut and the hamlet: a voice over the mountains and crags that the distant wanderer felt.

A voice from the plague-stricken shanty town: A voice of the weak and the wretched pawn. A voice from the tomb and of tribulations.

A voice of the weak and the wild: a voice from melancholy and of the mild. A voice from the slumber, and of the sleepless night. A voice from the crowds, and of a solitary sight.

Byron, her attitudes however is: don’t touch me plant! I am.. a pigeon’s chest lately and lastly affected. Once, I noticed her trembling in the breeze; dancing along with cheery, camellia leaves, twining plants in tendril and amid the smell of camphor; in the disguise of Mimosa pudica, shy and bashful. Touch me not! Touch me not! “I would fall and decay, “she whispered at my evil-intent. Homo sapiens sapiens dared against flora’s wish. She folded herself inward; and drooped and wilted.

Of late, at that very place a new bud appeared, blessed by water and sunlight. Over my shoulder I felt, someone was gazing at me; I turned back and saw a budding Mimosa pudica, trembling in the breeze.

Therein I realized Byron, “let inside buds blossom, as youth blossoms into maturity.”

Byron,

Your perpetual poetic presence has always been a solace to us.