Army of Tibetan players,
From village to village,
Air full of sounds of drums and bowls.
They dance in red robes of faith,
They sing the sacred chants of Tibet,
Round and round,
In centre, life’s Mandala says over and over,
love, love, love.
Through the smoke of their music,
The stretch of souls,
A golden hawk opens her bold wings,
Fly towards the dream of One.
How often a poet
Get an invitation
To feast and dance,
Be a guest of Himalaya’s wonders.
The waiting time is over,
Poet might take a break,
Sit under a willow tree,
Listen to hidden music,
Cover herself with wisdom leaves,
At the end,
The choice is clear,
End of the marsh of peacocks.
What a relief,
When mind settles in quiet,
Poet returns with smile,
To what she knows the best” writing”
Truth still hunts her down,
Pinch and tickle her skin,
On worse days, it is a kick follows
By this words of advise,
” It is just a game,
Small part of a big play, named life”,
Laugh, when things get serious,
nothing is by a chance.
Packed her light bag,
And moved in with words
To build the house of hope,
To throw a party for homecoming of light.
She covered all the path,
With lilies, roses, carnations
and sweet magnolias…
The music of Tibetan drums,
Drop by drop,
Pour love into her pen,
Tutor the boldness to her words,
Stripped the shy dove of love,
From fears and doubt,
“And how much she wants to fly”.
To fly out of this exile
without being chased by modern politicians,
Or traditional religions.
Behind the silk night,
share the dream of One,
In quest of a new Pilgrims
Freedom of bondage
For the sake of all nations,
On the narrow road,
Leaning towards rays of the sun.
Intimacy of fearless birds,
Rising from untouched peak of Himalaya,
Landing on purple breeze of hope,
when the tiny bud of liberation,
Is pushed through the hard shell of conditions.
The poet knows nothing is by a chance,
She might as well be bold
Tell the truth, liver her life in full.
And once in a while,
Take a break,
Empty her mind,
open her heart,
move in with being,
And let the magical beautiful tapestry of her life
Be created in stillness by the breathe One.
The poet will smile,
When she hears
the Tibetan’s drums,
She knows, nothing is by a chance,
And no condition stays forever,
Life is in motion.
© Serena Devi, March 2010, Thornhill Canada