The refugees are here...
the air around them is wilted
the smell around them is of a baby's mouth freshly
weaned from mother's milk
or of outdoors and animals churned heavily with winds
their eyes are realgar red
roughly snatched from a grandfather's forehead pat
that was either a blessing or a goodbye
Sometimes mountains are defeated by intent
and the modest flat soil beneath one's feet rears like
a mountain at every step
with such steps the refugees are here
The hidden turquoise in the abandoned gorges
sheds flecks of blue in the lakes
crying into wherever it sees water
or just burns into blue ash with the pain of exodus
people and their earth are one
they ought nought to be parted else
orphaned stones cry
The enemy has ravaged modest dwellings at gunpoint
the way swords demolish cobwebs
can guns talk for sixty years
can guns act deaf for so long
all the while barley roasted for Tsampa
[1]has been packed into sacks
and loaded on the backs of hearts barely beating
backs that dip like a dead donkey’s saddle
yes, animals give up more easily than humans
man is a victim of his soul
A young child lifts up his blistered, bleeding foot and says
Popo la
[2], "I don't want to go anywhere.
You are my home!"
How does then a father explain
to his child’s face showing clear pain
That when a homeland has been snatched
just a home is not enough
a home is not enough if it is on borrowed earth
that their soil no longer begs for their sweat
only for their blood
Heavenly snow falls in tufts of understanding
it wraps his tiny blistered feet
till it swirls inside the boy's tired eyes
the father bends low
howls
death and parting
have entered the roasted barley sacks
that he will never eat again
hungry, empty
the refugees are here
only to keep alive the stories of their land
through chapped, charred lips
that dried up kissing loved ones goodbye.