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.