The unpurged images of day

Will not give me away to complacency

Even after fifty years of Chinese

Occupation we Tibetans continue

To resist, especially in mid-winter

When we picture our rose garden,

The secret garden of our soul,

A place where all that is, is good 

And all that is, is fine

Is writ in large, in watery wine:

Written in a tender-script divine

When Persian berries tantalise 

Our taste buds, awaken our senses,

Dates from Andalusia tempt us

Into eating

I know the figs are fine 

And the wine just fine too

Chinese herbs help me see

The Tibetan plateau, golden,  all around me

Where all that is, is being free,

Where the air is rare and the skies so high

Chinese troops are passing by

And my temple is my privilege

Just as my death will be 

As the prayer-bells tinkle in the wind

And tattered prayer-flags fly so high.