Amongst a classroom of gentle elitists

Fashionable friends and dance parties

Love lives, book clubs and the occasional movie night

My form seems to fit but not my being.

My being is fiercely tied

To the poles of Nakchu tent

Hours of horseback rides, frozen landscape

Amongst bed-stricken women

Cry of newborn babies.

The harsh wind still reminds

Of the yak’s gaze in the evening sun

As we slowly round up the day’s work

Counting hats and exchanging stories

I close my eyes

And see the light on Buddha’s face.


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