Self-immolations ensue
When a person offers to flames
The holiest of the holy
At the altar of freedom
Like a small lamp
Against the darkness of tyranny

Desolated by Light
And deserted by Love
When people suffocate
In utter suppression
The cry for freedom echoes
From every river valley
From every mountain peak
For some light to see
For some free air to breathe

In hunger & in thirst
For freedom
Lives in sheer desperation
Perform baptism of fire
It speaks not just
A holy fire of martyrdom
Burning for Freedom
But a real obscenity of repression
For the regime is only fluent
In the language of blood & brutality

My heart weeps
And wanders
In the dim valleys
Where spring has faded
And flowers taken leave.

Restless is the heart
Longing for the Unknown
In the angst of ruthless uncertainties
Staring into the face of emptiness
I chastise & despise
In hunger, in thirst.

བདེན་དོན་འབའ་ཞིག་གི་ཆེད
འབར་བཞིན་པའི་མེ་ལྕེ་རྒོད་པོ་དེས
གངས་རི་ལ་གཟི་འོད་སྤྱིན་ཅིང
གངས་ཅན་པར་སྤོབས་པ་རྩལ
གཞལ་དུ་མེད་པའི་སྙིང་སྟོབས་ཀྱི་ཀྭི་སོ་ཡིས
དམག་དཔུང་གི་སྙིང་རྩ་འཕར་ཏུ་བཅུག་ལ
ལག་ལྡང་སྦྲེལ་བའི་ཆིག་སྒྲིལ་གྱི་སྟངས་སྟབས་དེས
དྲག་གནོན་གྱི་མེ་སྒྱོག་འདར་ཏུ་བཅུག

བདེན་པའི་གཡུལ་ས་ན
མཁའ་དབུགས་ཇི་ལྟར་དོག་མོད་ཀྱང
བདེན་དོན་གྱི་རྨི་ལམ་ལ་གས་ཆག་ཤོར་མི་སྲིད་པས
རླུུང་ནག་འཚུབ་མའི་ཁྲོད
གཉའ་གནོན་གྱི་བཙག་ཁ་ཇི་ལྟར་ཆེ་ཡང
མུ་མཐུད་དུ
འཆི་ལ་ཉེ་བའི་གངས་རི་ལ
ཚེ་སྲོག་གི་གསོན་ཤུགས་སྣོན་དང
ང་ཚོས་སེམས་ཀྱིས་ཁྱེད་ལ་ཉན
ང་ཚོ་ཡང
ཁྱེད་ཀྱི་སྤྱན་ལམ་དུ་འགུལ་གྱིན་ཡོད

Frida’s life wasn’t a beautiful journey, but there is a value in her protest against human nature and the restless human condition. A struggle against the realities of her existence with immense anguish and audacity, not in search of any meaning but a pure exhibition of herself and the realities as she perceived. I intent not to idealize her nor do I want to tell her story. But as I contemplate, given that existence has no meaning in itself I suspect that it does not entail a ‘let-it-go’ precept for life. Life as transitional state of affair between a womb and a tomb, in its transient moment we are privileged with some freedom to choose. The choices we make by listening to our reason or passion is what we become. What if Frida did not choose to paint after the accident that crippled her? What if I did not choose to leave home? We are the choices we make. No matter how ignorant and in what an oblivious climate of consciousness do we choose those paths. Is this what Kierkegaard called ‘a leap of faith’ that our existence is subjected to? Or ‘Karma’ as might Hindus and Buddhists call it; a beginning-less chain of causality.

Despite our ignorance to the ‘chicken-egg’ problem, we think we are free to act upon our reason or desires. Perhaps we are only free in what Kant calls the ‘noumenal’ world, but because we ‘think’ we have free-will therefore we are ‘free’ as Descartes argues. Since we are free, it entails a moral obligation to the choices we make. Well, I don’t know what is moral or immoral but I think I can infer from above that the choices we make is the basis of our moral conscience.

Note: On the subject of morality, I will explore it in another Mindboard entry.

A brief meeting
a fleeting memory
like foam on the river
like dewdrops of the dawn
a transient existence
then comes the parting.
Like the tempest
upon a calm sea.
The receding waves
biding farewell to the beach,
with tears
but in hope.

All the little things
We know each other,
All the small things
We can tell each other,
we leave unsaid
All remain unfinished.
A song
Singing in depths
of these eternal souls,
yet still unsung
with hesitation
with fear
But won for each other!

Written Feb. 2010

སྙན་ངག་མ་བྲིས་པའི་ལོ་ཟླ་འདི་དག་ལ
ས་གཞི་ལ་ཁ་དོག་བྲལ་ཅིང
ནམ་མཁའ་རུ་རྒྱུ་བའི་སྤྲིན་ཕུང་ཡང
དཔག་དཀའ་བའི་འགྲོས་སྟབས་ཀྱིས
ཁེར་རྐྱང་དུ
ལེ་བར་ཁྲི་ཕྲག་ཏུ་ཉུལ།

སྙན་ངག་མ་བྲིས་པའི་ལོ་ཟླ་འདི་དག་ལ
ངའི་སེམས་ཀྱི་རྩྭ་ཐང་དུ
ལུ་གུའི་འབའ་སྒྲས་འཇགས་ཤིང
ལུག་རྫིའི་གླུ་སྒྲས་དབེན
སྟོང་ལྷང་ལྷང་གི་སྣང་བ་དེས
ངའི་སེམས་ཁམས་སུ
འཁྱག་ལྷུང་ལྷུང་གི་རྦབ་ཆུ་བཞུད།

སྙན་ངག་མ་བྲིས་པའི་ལོ་ཟླ་འདི་དག་ལ
འཇིག་རྟེན་ན་ལྗང་མདོག་བྲལ་བས
འཛུམ་མདངས་དང་དགོད་སྒྲ་སད་ཀྱིས་བཅོམ།

འོན་ཏེ

དཔྱིད་རླུང་འཇམ་པོའི་འགྱུར་ཁུགས་དེས
ང་གཉིད་ལས་བསླངས
སླར་ཡང
སྨྱུ་གུ་ལ་ཚེ་སྲོག་རྒྱས་པས
དཔྱིད་དཔལ་བུ་མོའི་འཇོ་སྒེག་དང་ལྷན
རེ་བ་དང་ཡིད་ཆེས་ཁེངས་ཏེ
དཔྱིད་དཔལ་གྱི་མཛེས་སྡུག་བསུ
དབྱངས་སྙན་གྱི་མེ་ཏོག་འཐུ།

When Destiny starts writing the first page of my life, I humbly asked him, “Can I help you?” It smiled to me and versed, “It is you who is going to write throughout your life, I just recorded your name”. And a quick flame of joy and freedom invaded my being.

*** ***

A ripe old man lying on his dying bed, breathing the last remnants of life for few words to his son; “listen son, I have enjoyed all seasons of my life. I drank its vinegar and gall, tasted its wine and nectar. But weep not my dear, for death shall cease my tears. Let me sail in peace for the ship is at the shore to take me to Heaven with the music of waves and the whispering of brooks secretly feeling the warmth of the Sea. It is the call I have no choice but to answer”.

*** ***

Somewhere in the dark corners of a filthy hut, the cry of our newest Guest ended the tragedy of a groaning woman, crawling with pain. The cry gave smile to her face, delight to her heart and health to her bones. But our new Guest is in fear and curiosity as every time he cried to call; the answer was an injection to ruin his intelligence and wisdom. As he cried, he was served all the needs and the needless without knowing. He thinks “I must be somehow worthy of respect, dignity and royalty. They are all my servants and the king I am.” Thus all humans age with this ego growing while its very nature keeps corroding. This is whence all tragedies of human existence befall.

*** ***

Spring sailed in its full grace and the gardener hurried weeding, but in innocence she beheaded the first Lily flower in her garden with the sharp edge of her sickle. She took the fallen flower in her hand with a cloud of sadness over her brow and a spell of prayer on her lips, saying; “May your soft petals shall embrace the earth with the freshness of air and the kissing of sunlight to nurture your budding seeds to blossom. To take your place to bathe in the sunlight, dance with the breeze and sing with the butterflies and may my benighted vision be cursed with this sin.”

*** ***

Down the valleys of imagination and across the plains of contemplation I chased the winged leaves of autumn singing the songs of their glorious spring. No less, by the limpid rivulet I overheard a quarrelsome sound, conversing between Love and Friendship;
Friendship with a cloud over her brow sighed as if she can’t stand the pain within and pleaded, “Under the garment of my personality, on a borrowed name you acted so selfish, heartless and conceitedly. Had it not been to your misbehavior you deserve to call me your Daughter”. It enraged in stead to calm as her frowned face reddened with fury of fire. Love assured with an air of pride, “you infant, how dare you to pit against my will? I want no fools to be my offsprings. So anticipate no forgiveness or expect justice and mercy from a step-mother.”
Suddenly awakened from the swoon, I found myself lost in thoughts yet it enlivened my being.

**** ****

Truth: A poor lonely farmer
Whose hut among the gorgeous mansions
Of wealthy neighbors
Seen often kicked and spat at.

Heaven: A pathless place
Where mystics claim their visit
Seen Prophets preaching, angels dancing
But could guide none.

Crime: A contract so private
Where a criminal sells
And a victim pays
But twice as the criminal.

Life: a foam on the river
Yet its transient existence
Suffices to mark a trace
In glory or in guilt.

Freedom: An island unclaimed
Whose ownership is the contention.
So expensive that the many lives it cost
Paid stark bloodshed yet gets none.

Love: A wine of silly ingredients
Tears scented with trust
Betrayal perfumed with promises
And the ecstasy made drunkards insane.