I
The Tibetan waits for customers.
His high-boned face is flat,
His beads and trinkets dangle
From rafters in his shack.
Glint-less the beads of his eyes.
II
The bayonet at my back is Time's.
My genes met stony ground
In a hybrid culture.
The age was like a flag
Tattered by cross winds.
I grasped too much,
Clung to what came easy,
Left what seemed hard.
Shoot, bastards,
Not all has been in vain.
I learnt a thing or two:
I have scars.
III
Professor or President,
Read the papers and find
In how many ways
Te world can go on without you.
When did you last remember
You were expendable?
Especially as poets we see our selves forever being replaced by newer poets who come along, we know the world can get along without us. Only our words seem indispensable in the long run, continuing through life without us, also.
Yes, the world can go on without you or me.... We think that we are all indispensable.... but in one way or other we are all refugees. In the battle of life, we are scarred and only through the hard way we learn things! ! Thoughts deep and profound! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good thoughts in powerful words attracting the attention of the readers...