THE LUNAR DIET 

On late nights you’ve seen that Diana chick 

and you’ve heard her weightloss schtick. 

”In one month all your bulk will be gone,” 

But of course it’s all a con. 

Although her so-called Diet of the Moon 

with its traces of selenium and witchesbroom 

will indeed disappear your unwanted shape 

and you’ll vanish all your extra weight, 

but it will all come back again, 

your loss will become your gain 

and all too soon 

you’ll mushroom, you’ll boomerang, you’ll balloon. 

THE REALM OF THE GODS WHO CONTROL OTHERS’ CREATIONS 

While your muses canary you awake 

my parrot perches asleep in its cage. 

I burn in the absence of their flame 

but you tower up like a crane. 

And those birds do prophet our futures: 

your doves and my vultures, 

your peacocks and your hawks, 

my silent shell’s empty bells. 

Though we’re feathered alike, you and I, 

your plumes atlas the sky 

and mine mattress my sighs, my sighs. 

The eagle captured my pigeon 

and fed it to your nestlings. 

“LET’S PLAY HOUSE,”

I said, “Let’s get more personal.”

I didn’t know what would happen,

that you would act like a vacuum

and treat me like furniture.”

EYE JOB. NOSE JOB. AND RED CROSSES.

The steeples in Seoul:

Needles in the sky, sewing up all the stars.

They’re red

They’re red

from the stanch of old Korean faiths.

Red! Red!

clotted up after lost Korea’s face

As red

as the stars

on all those tanks

sent south

to patch over those scarlet steeples.

The new needles

hammer forged;

thread, sickle sliced.

THE MISSIONARY 

My pilgrimage was blessed! 

I counted off  

the beads she strung  

across her chest, her precious  

rosary. 

So  

I’d passed  

my first test, one step  

upon the way. To finalize  

my quest, incessantly  

I prayed. 

And when,  

at last,  

I pressed into  

her nunnery, my passion  

came to rest, enveloped  

in glory. 

Her cloister was a nest 

of sacred ecstasy.  

…

Question?

Will you come to see me again?

If you are willing to call on me
Meet me in such a way
That we won’t part again
In anticipation of your arrival
I have been staying awake
As though I won’t have to sleep back again

I am impatient to touch the gait of those feet
You are turning this way
Only for my sake

Will you plant some flowers for me
Before you take your way again?
Or at least, will you leave behind some flowers?
I will devote myself to them
So that they won’t wither ever again

Will you say something for me
From your pious lips?
I shall consider your words my prayer;
Will you kindly shed for me
A drop of tear?

I shall consider it my elixir
In the parching desert heat;
Will you light me a lamp before you part again?
I shall consider it the moon
To light my dark nights

In the past too
I always waited for you
As long as I had hopes
And had life

I still wait for you
When I have no life left
And no hope left, either

Will you really come
For my sake?

ABOUT MYSELF:
Rehaan Khan is a US-based Nepali poet. He started writing since his school days and made formal entry into the writing fraternity with the launch of his Nepali poetry collection Anautho Sapana (2013). His fame as a poet rose with the publication of Ujyaloka Maliharu (2020), a joint collection of poems by ten Nepali poets. The Festivity of Dilemmas (2026) is his third collection of poetry and the first one in the English Language.

Fells with You

It was quite dawns 

      When it storms the skies,

I have seen the world

              In your hopeful eyes.

I have found my peace

             Within a steady view,

Because the journey 

                 May have with you.

In two wandering souls

           With one steady pace,

We are finding our rhythm

                  In time and space.

Even the map of life

                  Are vast and wide,

But with your fingers 

                  It’s locked in mine.

Biography

Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey is one woven with the artistry of words, the precision of engineering, and the resounding echoes of literary passion. His life’s path meandered through the structured world of engineering before blossoming into an awe-inspiring legacy in the poetic realm. Despite pursuing a career in engineering, the written word never loosened its grip on his soul. It was as if poetry was inscribed into his very being, waiting patiently for the right moment to erupt into brilliance. And erupt, it did. What followed was an unstoppable rise through the ranks of the World Poetic Fraternity, marking Dr. Maji as a luminary in contemporary literature.  His literary prowess, distinguished by a profound sensitivity and refined craftsmanship, has been recognized far and wide. The world acknowledged his contributions by bestowing upon him twenty two Honorary Doctorates, a testament to the depth and impact of his work. Recognition followed in waves, with twelve prestigious Annual Literary Awards adorning his illustrious career – one of the most remarkable being the Silver Saraswati Statue, a symbol of divine wisdom and artistic excellence.

The weight of his influence is evident in the vast array of publications that carry his name. His unique poetic creations have graced numerous magazines, newspapers, and contemporary anthologies, reaching readers across India and beyond. His artistry, rooted in heartfelt emotions and intricate expressions, carved a distinct space within global literary landscapes. Dr. Maji’s written legacy is solidified through thirteen remarkable poetry collections, each bearing the coveted ISBN. His Bengali version books – Kavita Bichitra, Kavita Darpan, Probad Angina, Premer Boikunth, Sonnet Bhaskar, Harano Bamsari, Smarane Manane, Barnera Rahasya, Vande Mataram and English versions Dreamscape, The Peace, The Divine Glow, Maxims 500 are more than literary works; they are extensions of his soul.

They have found their way into the hands of eager readers, offering solace, beauty, and wisdom through poetic verses that transcend time. These titles bear witness to his unwavering commitment to poetry and the sheer brilliance of his literary craft. His story is not merely about accolades or achievements. Very recently he was conferred with ‘Swarno Padok’ by Kolkata based Bango Sanskriti Sangsad for his book ‘The Peace’. It is about a man who dared to transform life’s melodies into poetry, leaving behind an enduring legacy that will inspire generations to come.

The Fate of Uncle Mammadhasan’s Donkey

Back then, in those beautiful days,

Uncle Mammadhasan was happy, his family was happy, and his donkey was happy too.

In summer, Uncle Mammadhasan worked at a Pioneer camp.

All the Pioneer children knew his donkey.

The donkey knew them too.

It could even tell the city Pioneer children from the village children.

He took very good care of the donkey.

He bathed it in the river,

burned garma to drive away its flies.

The Pioneer children even fought with each other

for the chance to bathe the donkey.

He had convinced us that

when the donkey was bathed, it rained.

But this time it did not rain.

Bullets rained.

The fire of war flared up.

The war began.

The fire of war drove away fairness, mercy, and conscience

like flies.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s two sons became martyrs.

He settled in a remote village as a refugee.

And his donkey was stolen.

This loss burned Uncle Mammadhasan

as much as the grief for his sons.

In those years there was no natural gas in the district.

Everyone carried firewood with donkeys.

The price of a donkey had gone up;

the value of a human being had gone down.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s donkey

had been sold to firewood traders.

Every day it was under a heavy load.

There was no one who knew its suffering.

And one day it died under its load.

They did not even leave its dead body alone.

They gave it to a sausage factory.

…

These were Uncle Mammadhasan’s last days.

He was eating cheap sausage.

The railway wagon where he lived

was a source of a bad smell.

He ate sausage

at the table where he killed flies with a fly swatter.

The heat gave him no peace either.

He no longer killed flies.

He fanned himself with the fly swatter

to cool himself.

It was real torment of hell.

That donkey’s cleanliness

no longer exists in this world.

I wish I could bathe that donkey

in the river once again.

And with the water

with which I bathed that donkey,

I wish I could put out

all the fires of war.

Wet Stars

I lean against the wall.

The sky is half torn open —

stars threading through broken cloud,

rain falling like it can’t decide

whether to drown the night

or just wash it.

The streetlamps along the sidewalk flicker,

surrendering one bulb at a time.

Below them, the puddles hold

whatever’s left of the sky —

a smear of starlight and headlight,

no longer telling which is which.

Then she arrives.

The rain doesn’t care that she’s coming.

It falls exactly as it would

on an empty street.

Her hand reaches me

before her face does —

a cigarette held loose between two fingers,

nails long, lacquered a green so bright

it cuts through the rain

from half a block away.

She lifts the cigarette,

and for a second

its ember is the one star

on this street

that isn’t drowning —

small, orange, only hers.

I hear her

before I see her shoes —

ankle boots, leather, six centimeters of heel,

striking the wet ground

like small, deliberate clocks.

Her coat is long,

black leather, soaked through,

and it doesn’t shine

so much as exhale —

the smell of rain

caught in old hide,

each step releasing a little more

of the storm she’s already walked through.

She doesn’t slow down.

She walks straight toward me

never breaking stride.

She sits down beside me.

The smell of it pulls

something loose in me —

two months ago, my uncle paid me

not in money

but in a leather coat,

worn soft by someone else’s years,

and I carried it home

like a small fortune.

My brother saw it

before I’d even hung it up.

“Will you give it to me?”

And I did —

the way you hand over

the one warm thing you own

without quite deciding to.

I watched him wear it.

I watched it become his —

like an old door

I keep forgetting is there,

until tonight, when it opened again,

beside her, in the rain.

II

Her fingers find my hand,

slow, like she’s not entirely sure

she’s allowed to.

We don’t talk.

We just look.

Then, without deciding to, she leans in.

Smoke and the chemical

sweetness of her lipstick

reach me before she does,

mixing into something

that isn’t quite a smell anymore.

When the gap between us

runs out of room,

her mouth finds mine,

and I swear the stars hung lower,

trapped between the buildings, blurred by rain,

close enough to mistake for witnesses.

Then it’s over.

We pull apart too fast,

the way you let go

of something hot

before you’ve decided if it burned you.

She goes one way.

I go the other —

walking home under the same wet sky.

III

By morning,

the puddles that held the sky

are dry again —

no trace of the stars

mistaken for witnesses,

no trace of us.

The city had room enough

for the rain.

It never had room

for us against the wall.

——————————————-

When Little Boys Fall in Love

Age 5 — The Sand Kiss

You hated it when someone

kissed your nose.

I buried you deep

in warm sand,

then stole a kiss

beneath the sky.

The waves kept our secret.

Age 6 — First Light

Your nails chewed down

to rosy tips,

sorting bottle caps

with quiet concentration.

You gave me your father’s crown.

I slipped it silently

into my pocket.

Age 7 — The Promise

Beneath sheets stretched

between two chairs,

your breath smelled sweet.

You whispered in the cotton dark:

“Promise our hands will never part.”

Age 8 — First Mercy

Gravel dug deep into my palm.

You kissed the stones away,

the sting turning calm.

Salt and copper on my skin—

your tender lips

made healing begin.

Age 9 — The Communion

You bit the apple,

passed it to me.

I held those tooth marks

like sacred things.

We rode our bikes

at nine each morning,

the air cool,

the streets empty.

When cousins came,

I told them I was busy.

“You might come tomorrow,” you said.

I turned away,

stubborn with pride.

Age 10 — The Fracture

“He throws things

when the bottle’s empty.”

You traced the rusted gate

with careful fingers.

Your voice cracked

like old hinges.

I counted my heartbeats—

sharp, cold—

not knowing yet

what to do

with someone else’s pain.

Age 11 — The Shift

Two knocks: your father.

Three knocks: safe.

But when they cornered me

at school,

you looked away.

I stood there long

after they had gone,

waiting for you to turn back.

You didn’t.

That was the day I learned

that love and courage

are not always

the same thing.

Age 12 — The Breaking

Your mother combed your hair

on Sunday mornings,

pressed you close.

“They say boys like us shouldn’t—”

You stopped.

Looked at the window.

As if the word itself

had weight

you couldn’t carry.

Age 13 — The Aftermath

I passed your house at dawn.

Counted steps since you were gone—

forty-seven to the old front tree

where you used to yawn

beneath the sky.

The moving truck came Thursday morning.

Your mother waved.

My heart broke quietly.

Inside the tree, I found your note—

three words in your handwriting,

the letters uneven,

pressed hard into the paper

like you meant them to last:

I’m sorry. Goodbye.

Coda — Forty Years Later

Sometimes I wake to phantom knocks—

two, then three, then silence.

If I could ride

those streets again,

I’d knock—two, then three—

and wait.

Not to explain.

Not to forgive.

Just to let the boy

behind the door

know that I remember—

every tooth mark,

every promise,

every morning

we chose each other

before the world

taught us not to.

The crown.

The apple.

The rusted cap.

Inside the house,

a boy

holding the door

a second longer

than necessary.

got my chakra

got my chair

eyes are going

can’t tell one from the other

keep trying to sit and

falling out of

enlightenment