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

Not all minds burn with equal flame,  
Some flicker gently, some boldly claim  
The heights of thought, few dare climb
Where intellect dances beyond time.

IQ may measure, but cannot define  
The soul’s deep hunger for the sign,  
For far-sighted eyes that pierce the veil,  
And trace the truth where others fail.

Some walk the path with books in hand,  
Researching stars, or grains of sand.  
While others rest in borrowed light,  
Afraid to ask if wrong is right.

To accept the truth, what sacred art!  
It asks not brilliance, but the heart.  
Yet still, the minds diverge and part,  
Some seek the whole, some just a part.

So let's dare honor each unique flame,  
Though not all burn with equal name.  
For wisdom’s fire, both fierce and mild,  
May yet awaken the sleeping child.
**
Jiri, Dolakha
10 Aug 2025