A rose garden at altitude under occupation

Contemplate a rose garden

On this roof-garden of the world,

especially in mid-winter,

under occupation.

 

I picture this rose garden,

this secret garden of the soul,

where all that is good and all that is fine

are written in the tender-script divine

of the Tibetan Book of the Dead - 

some things are better left unsaid.

 

Here certain black persian berries tantalise us

and dates from Al'Andalus are sent to tempt us;

the figs of all the world are fine, just fine, the wine is just fine, too

but , in a rose garden at altitude, under occupation,

chinese herbs help me see the prayer bells chime;

the tibetan plateau  is all around me now and Chinese soldiers show their guns glitter in the sun.

Monks scurry by, hiding their eyes,

where all that was left, of being free, has drained away externally;

secret smiles in this thin air are rare beneath skies so very high

while, underneath the walls, new chinese troops are marching by;

our temple is, now, within us

our deaths hath been foretold.

All is, as it was before,

foorsteps in the snow.