I am tired, / I am tired doing that 10th March ritual, screaming from the hills of Dharamsala.
From home you have reached / the Horizon here. / From here to another
My father died / defending our home, / our village, our country. …
I am a terrorist. / I like to kill. / I have horns, / two fangs
When it rains in Dharamsala / raindrops wear boxing gloves, / thousands of them come crashing down
When I was / born my mother said / you are a refugee.
Our tiled roof dripped / and the four walls threatened to fall apart / but we were to go home soon,
Thirty-nine years in exile. / Yet no nation supports us. / Not a single bloody nation!
Tashi Delek! / Though in a borrowed garden / you grow, grow well my sister.
Kill my Dalai Lama / that I can believe no more./ Bury my head
Our final kora will be complete when we return to a ’free’ homeland after years of roaming in foreign jungles. But to fulfil this ultimate journey, we need writers, activists, statesmen, thinkers and most of all bread-and-freedom poets to paint our reality as it is — so that when the kora is complete we can plan our future ’in our own words, in our own silence, and in our own wisdom.’
Pedro, Pedro / What do you have in your flute? / Is there a little boy who lost his mother, …