One of the effects of war is the emptying-out of personal content from people's lives: When security is a daily concern, what energy can we devote to engaging with others, to enjoying the pleasures, big or small, that are available in our days? What opportunity is there to be truly human?
Reading Viplob Pratik's poems are as good a way as any to welcome the end of war (in Nepal, at least). A songwriter and poet who is guided, above all political ideologies, by deeply felt humanitarian concerns, Pratik is a rare poet whose work has been gaining force in recent years, as he has allowed the fullness of life to find expression in his writing.
The first poem below was written during the state of emergency. Though it is not directly political, it speaks of the degrading effect of violence in a way that can be taken as political. It was part of the "Bichalit Bartaman" (disillusioned present) public art protest program last year.

YOU AND I IN THE FURNACE
Just as the fire rages in the furnace
when the wind rushes through the stoker
you are blowing your breath all over
the coals of my anxieties
and the embers of my disorders are alight

As the hammer
dipping into water, heating up in flames
beats molten iron
you beat my mind and emotions
The reach of my sorrow expands

At times I feel: how marvelous is your handiwork
What sort of skill is this? Amazing-
What are you trying to make?
You are so lost in your effort
I am afraid to ask about your creation
lest I should hinder you

Yet-should I stay quiet, asking nothing, I worry
some fearsome creation might take place
Tell me-how long you will keep stoking this fire?
-how long you will beat my mind and emotions?
Could it be that you have mistaken me for metal?

The next poem expresses sentiments that have become rare in these cynical days: wonder, and joy in the pleasure of others:

A PERSON KISSED BY THE MOON
This rhododendron
this rose this marigold
these orchids and amaranths
Have you ever looked at flowers?

And the stream with its babbling waters
The acacia tree
at the saddle of that mountain
The himals and above them
clouds that drift, gather, tear apart-
Have you looked at them?
Have you seen the rainbow?
Have you seen birds dipping and soaring?
Have you seen the sunrise and also the sunset?
Then you've likely also seen fog
A person who has seen the sun
you must have touched rays of light-
but did you finger the soil?
Did you embrace the earth?
Did the moon really kiss you?
If so, then tell me the stories of
Neptune, the sun, Saturn, Mars, Venus and Uranus
Did a flower really sprout from your lap?
Was the rainbow entwined in your arms?
And how did it feel to kiss the moon?

It is a marvel
By some grace I have met you:
a person kissed by the moon

The final poem shows off Pratik's wide range: he is neither a poet of sorrow, nor of joy alone, but a poet who captures the many fine textures of life.

FEAR
I wrote, today, a truly fine poem
and felt inexpressible delight
I was alone in my room
There was no one to hear my words
The lifeless walls enclosing me
were the sides/doors/windows
of my room
When in these confines I read my poem out loud
The walls shouted back louder than me
I got scared I stopped a while
then continued reading my lines
I finished the entire passage
then I repeated the same poem over
very softly, stopping now and then,
I read my poem in a clear voice
I was frightened-I didn't want the walls
to echo my voice
The walls remained grave
I didn't want to repeat my poem of delight