Poetry Month

From Tibet
by Dom Moraes

   I
For me my dark words are
Quickened by your bright hair,
But I have come too far
To a strange country where
Tree-fingers point towards
Darkness, and I lack words.

The yaks like clumbs of wool
Stump through red poison-flowers,
So red, so beautiful,
A dream rieses and towers
Beyond me, till I stand,
You hand warm in my hand.

But I must ride with Das,
A small man quick with hope
Toward the invaded slope,
Cloud-fastened, ice-ribbed, where
A few hawks shriek and stare.

I shall keep warm above
The valleys hazed and far
For these days I find love
In oem, wind and star,
Wiser than I am wise,
You have lent me your eyes.

   II
Today the rare pale sun
Appears, and the mules snort,
Das writes his press report --
We have seen no Chinese.
No fighting has begun.
The hawks sleep in the trees.

I have seen enough
Of this valley and this death.
I would not waste my breath
Mourning, but be a hawk
Who would take wing far off
Before the approaching dark.

Like cinders the red flowers
Brush fire across my sleeve.
I shall remount and leave
Taking no backward look,
And then collect these hours
In a travel book.

My book will tell the truth
But it will not be true,
Till I return to you,
My truth, my miracle.
While I keep my old faith
In you, I shall write well.

My page will be of stone
Where the bright water scrawls
The truth of Time, which falls
From times when, you not there,
I would recall, alone,
The colour of your hair.