A rose garden at altitude under occupation

dormant in mid-winter

I picture the rose garden in spring

as the secret garden of my soul

where all that is good and all that is fine

are written in a tender-script divine

where persian berries tantalise the taste

and the morning prayer bells undulate

the breakfast figs are fine

as is the watery wine

and these chinese herbs will help me to see

and keep me well

the tibetan plateau shines  all around me

the Himalayas glow in the snow

this is where all that is, is being free,

the air is rare,  the skies so high,

while chinese troops are passing by,

my temple is my privilige

as my death shall be 

for all that I love, I see.