Tibetan Nights

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The only thing that breathes is the sound of engine

Relentless in its climb against the steep rugged pass

Palms cold with sweat, eyes too awake for their sockets

Somewhere I heard a cry in the wild, was it my own voice?

Sounds drum in and out, sometimes it is my own, sometimes it is theirs’

Half of everything made sense; the rest was a strange spasm.

To think just yesterday I was filled with hope

Finally life held a distinct shape

But one should have known journeys like mine never end…

I am a spinning wheel blown in all directions

I am the eternal misfit’s voice.

They have stopped moving now

In front of us is the town, barely visible without the streetlights

Inside the dark grey building, a lone thought zipped by

Where is everyone?  Where the fuck is everyone?!

I am lying on the bed… I have to sleep, I need to sleep now.

But I am so afraid for tomorrow will be hell.

The walls inch closer against the heart, how fragile is freedom!

Men of the Tibetan nights I see them coming now

In loose dark suits and their monstrous cars

Scream!

I force my eyes open until the silhouettes fade

Beaten by the light of the ugly moon.

Yes you are here! Here in a little apartment across a golf course

Choked by featherlight pillows…this  is absurd!

I wait for sunlight unable to sleep

Am I meant to tell stories of injustice?

Perhaps I am crippled by the baggage of the past…

Some say for your sake move on

Others insist people have a right to know the story.

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8 responses »

  1. The nature of your burden and mine is the same. I, too, in the comfort of my newly found freedom dream of a home country free of dictatorship and full of enlightened people. But with the state of the affairs as it is, hopes are waning and every second ticks closer to a bloody, chaotic and disastrous ending. I fear that one day we will be remembered not because we eventually tried, but because we allowed it to happen in the first place.

  2. its too odd thing to say that you loved the rendition of a painful story. so, yes, i got the picture in all the beauty of its ugliness.
    my fav is the first line of course.
    keep writing. i often end your poems with a sigh..

  3. Tibetan Nights

    Darking

    restless nights

    stealing

    Mountain voices

    Trains & Cars & Beijing Jeeps lights

    swallowing

    the lamps of heart of Potala

    Silence of vioces
    was mine and theirs…

    My sleepless Mother and Lhabtso lake

    holding

    a broken Mani Wheel

    in front of the grave- land

    of father at home

  4. @ Minax your comments fuel my insomnia further…what you have said made me think about the implication behind I think, therefore I am. So are we- “You Try therefore You Are” or “You Lost therefore You Aren’t”?

    @ Tingmo Zema, thank you for your comment. I will try to be more consistent with my posts.

    @ Yakman:

    Someday

    Tibetan nights

    will be lit in peace.

    We will see

    the tinkling bells

    of sleepy herds

    dozing on their bellies.

    The Potala will be cleaned

    by the chanting of Tara

    voices…yours and theirs’.

    The wise old mothers

    at Namtso and Yamdrok

    will wander freely

    with their old Mani wheels

    at one with the beautiful land.

  5. Shangri-la Bar

    Drunkenness is
    the new paradise in Tibet.

    Pain or joy — feelings are just
    some buttons on the karaoke machine,

    and young girls you can pick
    to accompany your night’s loneliness.

    Who cares about sins
    lingering in their souls,

    Gods themselves are stuck
    in fancy museums.

    (wrote on 2009/04/07)

    Tashi Delek. Glad to come across your blog. Best wishes from Tibet 🙂

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