I am the drop that echoes
in the cave’s black throat,
the salt that lingers
after the wave has gone.
I am the map of flame
a moth circles.
I am a prayer the glassblower
cannot shape.
I am what remains
when thirst is quenched.

Only trust
discerns my outline –
I return as the glaze
inside the clay
when held with love.
Inside a kiss,
I become lightning;
the charged breath,
the detonated pulse.
One touch,
the sky cracks open.
One swallow,
the earth remembers rain.

For Tenzin Tsundue

Sutured like a thin scar of voile
on a rough tectonic existence,
you and your scarlet bandanna
inhale measured breaths.
Your cultural ivory
crushed beneath Red boots.
The elegant calligraphy of
Om Mani Padma Hung
erased by
cheap, charcoal graffiti.
Still, the mistral blows
from pure Yamdrok Tso
unfurling flinty permafrost
freezing the evil hands
that take away
a way of life.
Revolting and rebelling
against a forced tepid existence,
gathering fire in your bones
graphics of self immolations in your eyes
standing upright in iron resolve –
a snow-lion flag
steadfast in your hands,
the sky of your freedom
is never far away.
Not radios or watches
or plastic cups or colour pencils
or phones or t-shirts…
It’s the struggle for freedom
that is Made in China.
Massacred monasteries
desecrated, canonic texts
bombed Buddhas
insulted scriptures
all Made in China
And you
proud, stubborn, defiant,
the jail always a second home,
abandoned by the world
walk from Dharamshala to Delhi
step by step
chant by chant.

Excerpted with permission from The Hour of God, Vinita Agrawal, Red River Press.

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