A Poet Waits, in Vain?
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.
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.
Not all has been in vain.
I learnt a thing or two:
I have scars.
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?
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