A call from Home

Under the lazy sun, I basked
Reminiscing the past of joy and peace.
A shadow crept in, over the white snow
Was it the red star rising from the east?

I have aged now with time,
The greys and the wrinkles showing sings of pain.
From a free soul to an unknown entity,
Lots of stories, as I tread down the memory lane.

In my early days, I remember
I was happy and wanted to remain.
Things have changed now and I wish I could go back,
And feel how it is to be free again.

When my neighbours first moved in,
“Peace and prosperity to all,” I heard them sing.
But it was too late before I realized
Those were the only two things they forgot to bring.

Today, I am just a lonely soul,
And my children are all scattered around the world.
I remember when they left me with tears,
Their last look promised to return before I grow old.

Now, time is running out,
And my patience slowly wearing thin.
If I had a voice, I would cry out,
“Come back soon, my sons,” before I give in.

I pray that I see my sons for the last time,
Before the world forgets me and my past glory.
To the people out there who don’t know me,
I am Tibet and this is my story.

The Windhorse

Washed off its color, yet unfazed
Fading away into the pages of history.
A reminder of a once-lived glory,
It flutters high in its tattered pride.

It has seen the pristine snow,
Smeared with the blood of innocents.
It has seen millions,
Homeless in their own land.

Witnessed with agony, the land of gods,
Trampled mercilessly by the red boots.
An irony it was, the “culture revolution”.
Wiped away a unique culture from its roots.

And yet the windhorses fluttered incessantly,
To the tone of the rusty prayer wheels.
Whispering across the wounded sky,
A silent plea for help, a smothered cry.

Waiting for that one last breath of wind,
To rejuvenate its deserted spirit,
Braving the storm and the tyrant rain.
Still continues to wait, to fly free again.

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