Exile
Exile / is a marigold / blushing luxuriantly
Exile / is a marigold / blushing luxuriantly
The best poems are written not on papers / But by the swans on the shores / the winds on the highway
And after years of escape and separation / You still recollect those native hills / Those prayer-flags,
I love you no less than my own self / This spring night I invite you to be my guest / You are my comrade;
Who knows what sunshine / the spring has in its fold for the / soul yearning for its shore
We are all late, except him / We are late for the ceremony of death,
For ages / I have been gone / from the home in the Cold Mountains
how they took away everything / and left only a handful of / joyless songs on our trembling lips
Spent and sad after spring / walking the darkness / drenching in the night rain
A Tibetan Geshe came / in the morning / and spoke about poisons / that grow in our mind
Give us the chance to pursue / our search for our / shores and shapes.