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The Three Perspectives

Wednesday 26 December 2007, by Tenzing Rigdol

The Three Perspectives

What is life?

An endless hope for light,
Slavery disguised in merciless hunger,
Ruthless cries, crystal tears,
An ambitious smile,

An arduous climb,
The interest bargains,
Painted faces, clayed smiles,
A profitable mile,

An opportunity for liberty,
Gift disguised in a thousand names,
The rare gem, tears proclaimed,
A diamond path.

What is death?

A poor man’s wealth,
Hope invented to extend hope,
A lonely mistress, inescapable God’s play,
Each day’s play,

The forbidden gate,
A wooden spur,
Profitless bargain,
Each day’s escape.

An indication of supreme soul,
A resolute truth,
The lives’ only humor,
Each day felt and each day laughed.

Traditional causality

A father drinks
And his sons get drunk.


On one ordinary day, I kneeled before your frozen feet. Your smile was painted in layers of butter-lamp smoke. Some offered you boxes filled with pebbles and gold; others offered you gracious bargained estates. As for me, a born beggar, I offered you all my miseries and pain.

Oh! My Sinful Eye

I adorned the lord’s altar with precious gemstones and pebbles. At its base I offered the fresh, mellowed fruit of four seasons, and pure nectar sweets of the eastern regions. Hundreds of butter lamps flickered to glow on your serene shrine. As a born Bheeku, I sat in lotus posture under your blissful blessing, and uttered to you with endless praises in mantras and songs. With my golden vajra-bell, I awakened the spiritual world. In the midst of my prayer, a stranger knocked at my door. In a faint voice, he begged me for the fruits that I placed on your altar. I paid no heed and I left the beggar to himself to accept the defeat of his request. Then, through my window, I watched him go and, to my embarrassment, it was you, my lord, who had knocked at the door. Let the New Buds Rise

Give me your courage,
Give me your hand,
To walk across the rusted walls where
Vicious ghosts guard the gate.
Lend me your strength,
Lend me your steps.
We are in a twilight zone;
Miseries have hunted our golden souls.
Give the dead men a solace song,
Free them from our mundane world.
Life is a flux, and
Truth depends on none.
Don’t be a Luddite,
For change will always come.
Let our new buds rise,
Let our petals spread,
Let us be alone,
Let us find our home.
Under the grateful sun,
Let us repent,
Let us even cry,
But bless us with your ancient soul.
Let us revive the old. A Birth

The sun melts into my tears and the darkest rays dip their nubs into my salted blood – a song is written in lukewarm blood -a defeated soul stands stooped and weary. My pride, for reasons that waltzed through many vulpine smiles, was bitten by its own canines. The valves in my calves resigned— my feet longed for fresh air. A flock inside me is murdered with the very shepherd’s stick. I am lonely as ever, and my shadow usurps my path. Birth is difficult like any other beginning - the pain that marks onto my eternal weal becomes my only possession. The follower is gone, and the burden is put on my brittle shoulders — now I must learn to walk with the grace of an elephant, and relearn to smile like a rose. Unsown Seed

A sculptor chisels a marble stone with his dexterity and diddles my artless mind to flit into a land beyond. The image devours my childlike, defiant gifts and opens the paper gate to a diabolic marketplace. Each day I descend deeper into the crowd; I lose my effortless smile. My face becomes an iron mask, and my mouth waffles unctuous words. A stone became an image— then it consumes my increate life. Now I stand alone, besieged by floundering ghosts; and in the midst of a futile journey, a thought flits through my mind - what would a sculptor chisel on my eternal epitaph?


How wonderful would this world be,
If one could only offer thee
Wordless prayers made only through deeds?


I know that we are few,
Clanged to a cactus like dew.
But when we grow,
Not in numbers
But in our unison flow
Chinese will fear from our blow.
Now stand, hand-in-hand in a row.
Swirl your voice from deep below,
Chins up,
Chests out,
Let nerves map our implicit shout,
When the time is ripe,
We would strike,
The heart of the Chinese,
Where Mao still hideously rides.


"Deafness of the world
Have arisen a poignant sadness.
The sadness dwells
Into the hollowed creeks of
Hellish wilderness.
A cry is born
Breaking the ribcages of
Love, Compassion, and Forgiveness.
Heart breaks into thousand many daggers.
Each one thundering out of a fierce anger.
Potala is boomed
Lhasa – a divine place
Has turned into
A deserted cemetery of
Randomly filled corpses of children and adults.
A phantom is born
The world condemns him and calls him the terrorist
He condemns the world for he had long suffered their deafness."
That’s how a prophet warns,
"The prayers unanswered turns into a devastating curse."

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