Tibet used to be a quaint place, full of monks and
poor people who didn’t often washed their faces.
Intrepid westerners liked the place, thought it was
a Paradise, even though no one stayed too long.
Then the Chinese came and, as occupiers often,
do destroyed works of art, the Lama, and his staff,
fled to India. Now modernity has arrived, there is
less poverty, roads have been built and it has been
said that there are dancehalls and painted ladies in
Lhasa. Life is better now, chiefly for the poor, yet
people will, it’s been said, endure the hardship of
freedom and yak butter in their morning tea for
a taste of independence. Westerners will be back
and write books about this authentic Shangri La.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem