You brandish your name like a sacred crest,
“Kirat,” you echo, with thunder in chest
Yet the echoes betray your ancestral breath,
Winds of the north whisper Tibetan depth.

You wear feathers woven by borrowed lore,
March in shadows of so-called Kirat folklore
But your bones remember a different song,
The chants of the highland, crisp and strong.

Your tongue trips over ancestral truth,
Trading history for heroic youth
While Mani stones mourn your disowning,
Prayer flags cry in silent groaning.

Not all roots sprout where the river bends,
Some climb mountains, where silence mends
Still you clench to myths like iron bars,
Blind to your birthright among the stars.

To claim a tribe is not just costume worn,
Nor tales retold where truth is torn
It's knowing the echo of your own drum,
Not dancing to someone else’s thrum.

Awake, O wanderer of mistaken trail
Break the glass of pride grown stale.  
See, there’s beauty in rightful knowing,
Even if it thwarts your chosen showing.

  Dhal Jirel Ravi
Jiri, Dolakha
3 August, 2025