Song of an Old Tibetan

I sing for all things dead and alive
For all things moving and still
For all moms who cry for their far away sons,

For dear moms who laugh with their nearby daughters
I sing for all fathers – strict watch dogs
For their scared craving maidens
And young men for their fathomless passion for flesh,
I sing for my compatriots
— the kindred souls
— restless spirits,
I sing for the young buds
For their struggle to be full fledged flowers

For flowers that age with honey bees,
For butterflies and their colourful wings,
Green grasshoppers for their ceaseless hops,
I sing for, myself, the traveller
The ever wandering vagabond,
Chased from where I belong
Eluted by promises and hopes
Belongs to a vaunted Diaspora
That fights from atop of a beautiful hill,

And for all travellers with no destination
For all fights fought and yet to fight
For the lost chord unfound
For the trial that rises upward
For the revised spirit
For gentler hearts
For the Promised Land
The snow sunk upland
Closer to where I want to die.

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