Everyday I see kind authorities and they get rid of my worries.
I am at peace and at night I watch dances for free.
I do what my friends - mosquitoes, fleas, and bedbugs - say:
the mosquitoes sing and the ticks dance, I watch their play.
I was jobless, wealth-less, my hard-earned food came from the spade,
I served those people so everyone would notice me and give me respect.
Without wavering I served and they were pleased and they gave
overflowing attention that is never, ever, taken away.
I am 40, I have a son who is eight years old.
The time for celebrating his manhood-ceremony is close.
I am rotting inside these four walls, so what can I do, my Lord?
How can I complete the ceremony in this darkness-filled world.
The secret of success should be given by the father,
the lessons of life should be given by the mother,
my child has yet to study the Vedas and serve his teacher,
therefore to you, my Owner, I repeat my prayer.
Even while a great ruler like you own this earth,
a Brahmin's rituals of manhood are being delayed.
Whose feet do I have to place my sorrow at except yours?
Please take pity on me and decide my case for better or worse.
My body is weak, it is made of grain and water.
How shall I say what has befallen me here?
I have suffered much sorrow, my body grows heavy,
and I have been ill for many days.
I was imprisoned for a long time at Kumarichowk,
illness came upon me there and after much trouble I went home.
When I became well they brought me here,
now you, my Owner, you are my only hope.
Whatever I explained to the authorities in writing is true.
But others' answers and written proofs, I am told,
have proved wrong all that I have said.
I told them I would pay their fines a thousand-fold.
But they say they have signatures on papers and letters,
they say their witnesses have many more tales.
I said I would not plead, I would rather be false,
I will say anything that gets me outside these walls.
I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in this quarrel.
I have no wish to become a millionaire and fill my house with treasures.
Days pass by uselessly and I cannot comfort myself
if you would decide my case it would be a great help.
I have talked with the warden and he does not speak.
Even if he does, his: "tomorrow, tomorrow," sounds like a joke.
What are these tomorrows? It would be better to know I won't be freed.
Many tomorrows passed. Please fill this empty bag of mine, I beg.
Bhanubhakta Acharya (1814 - 1868) Nepal