when will he come?
I do not have a turquoise-mane
my turquoise-mane is the forest of Ganden burial ground,
the deer and doe living in that forest
and the lonely sun of the Himalayan sky.
this head is lonesome like a barren land
these hands are lonely like a banner
and the window on the wall of time is forsaken.
on the fingertips of a writer
the dazzling flame of a stone’s life stories,
carries all miseries of the river
a moment at the crest of a ship’s flag.
I do not have a turquoise-mane
my turquoise-mane is a bright torch
burning in the pitch darkness of night
with its handles like a warrior’s hands—
a desolate snow mountain,
blessed by the sun and moon.
like a pillar, the ancestors are desolate,
the naro in the records of ancestors renounced
even the palace gate in my dream is deserted.
a symphony carries the melodies of aspirations
from the sunlight of southern horizon
and disturbs the silence of Drakmar,
the sacred mountain of royal lineages.
where is the lion?
when will he come?
---Tashi Rabten