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.
Drugmo Lives... 
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.
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..
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
@ 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.
such dreams we dream
dreams may evolution bring
hard hearts awakening
or not
@47 whitebuffalo
If they have a heart at all, hard hearts will awaken.
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 🙂
Happy to hear from a netizen in Tibet.
“God themselves are stuck in fancy museums” was a powerful closure. Keep writing!