My post in Tibetan titled Sorry

དགོངས་དག

ནུབ་འདུ་འཛི་འདོད་ཡོན་གྲུ་ག་ཞེས། །འདོད་ཁ་ཚ་དགོས་གཏུགས་འདོད་པ་ཉིད། །དེ་ཐོབ་རུང་རེ་ནས་འདིར་འཕངས་མཐར། །དངོས་ཚོར་སྐྱེན་ད་མེད་འདོད་བཟི་བ། །སྟོན་ལོ་མཇུག་དགུན་གྲང་སྟ་གོན་དུ། །ལྗང་ལོ་མའི་ལང་ཚོ་ཁ་གྱུར་ལས། །ལྷག་ཧྲེང་ཧྲེང་སྒྲེང་བའི་སྡོང་པོ་བཞིན། །ད་ཐོབ་རུང་གིས་ཕོངས་ཡི་དྭགས་བཞིན། །ད་འཁང་ར་བཅོལ་ས་རང་རིགས་ཁུལ། །ཤོང་གནམ་སར་དཀའ་བའི་མུ་ཅོར་ཐལ། །བདེན་དྲིན་ཆེན་ཨ་མའི་བུ་རྒོད་བཞིན། །བདེན་ར་བཟི་འཁོར་ས་ཆང་ཁང་བཞིན། །ཅུང་ཐོབ་པ་རྣམས་ཀྱང་ཚོར་ཆེས་སྐྱེན། །མིག་མིག་ནང་བཅུག་ནས་འབྲེལ་བ་དཀོན། །

ཆ་མི་འཚལ་ཆེས་ཆེ་གཞན་ཅིག་ནི། །འདོད་ཉིང་ཁུ་དགའ་མའི་གྲོག་ཚང་ལས། །ལག་སོན་པ་རང་ལས་ལམ་འཛོལ་ཞིག །ཆ་གང་བལྟས་ཡོད་པ་ཅ་ཅོ་འོ། །འུར་འདོད་ལྷ་ངོ་སྐྱེངས་འཚབ་ལ་སྦྱར། །ད་ནམ་མཁའི་ལྷ་མོ་ཐོབ་སྙམ་འཁྲུལ། །ཅུང་འཇིག་རྟེན་གྱ་གྱུའི་འགྱུར་བ་ལས། །རང་ཚུགས་ཀ་བོར་ནས་སྨྱོན་པ་བཞིན། །དལ་རྟེན་བཟང་ཡིན་པ་ཡེ་ནས་བརྗེད། །ད་སྐྱིད་པོ་གཏང་ཞེས་འདོད་སྙིགས་སྤྱོད། །ཨ་ལ་ལ་དེ་ལས་སྐྱོ་བ་གང་། །

ཕྲན་ཁེར་རྐྱང་སྡོད་རུང་མཆོག་པ་ཅི། །གང་སྣང་བ་བདེན་འཛིན་གྱིས་བསླུས་པས། །ཚུལ་མིན་པའི་རྣམ་རྟོག་རླུང་ལྡང་སླ། །དེས་དྲངས་པའི་ཆགས་སྡང་ཁོ་ལོ་པས། །གཞན་ཉོན་མོངས་སྤུ་རིས་གྲུ་ཆེན་སྒྱུར། །འཕུང་རང་གཞན་ལས་ཀྱི་འཁོར་ལོ་སྐོར། །འཕྱན་ཟོ་ཆུན་འཕྲུལ་འཁོར་བློ་མེད་ལས། །

ད་འདི་ལྟའི་ཕལ་རྗེན་གཏམ་རྒྱུད་ཆེད། །འཚོ་དགོས་ན་ཡིད་ཆད་ངལ་འབྲས་དབེན། །འདི་ཤེས་པའི་མོད་ལ་ཁྱེད་དང་མཇལ། །མཆོག་ལྟ་ཀུན་སྒྲོན་མེ་ཀླུ་སྒྲུབ་དགོངས། །གདའ་ཡིད་དཔྱོད་ཙམ་མོད་ལ་དུ་མཆོག །ད་ཆགས་ས་མེད་སྙམ་ཙ་ན་མུ། །འདྲེ་བདེན་འཛིན་བར་བར་ལྡང་ཡོང་དུས། །སྐབས་རེས་འགར་དེ་ཚུགས་གཡོ་གར་གོ །ད་དེ་ཙམ་ཆོག་ཤེས་ཅི་ནས་འགྲིག །འོ་ད་ནི་ན་ཚོད་ཀྱིས་ཀྱང་འཕྱ། །བདེན་འོན་ཏང་རིག་པ་ནངས་འཆི་རུང་། །སློབ་དགོས་པའི་གཏན་ཚིག་དྲན་ཙམ་གདའ། །ད་ནུབ་ཕྱོགས་ཡུལ་དུ་ཅི་བྱ་འམ། །ད་གར་གནས་དེ་རུ་སྒྲིམ་གལ་སྙམ། །ད་དེ་ལས་གཞན་པའི་ཐབས་ཅིག་བྲལ། །

Self-Mirroring

Through picking up on its way those random signs of hopes and smiles that now like mosaic sand figures falling apart and apiece this illusion-inflated entity is now no more than a nail-biting nut, an invalid, a nihilist yet not developed a complete renunciation to find the other way illumine. Though being deranged numb, yet sprightly willing for a deeper gash enlightening forever.

Though lost this far, bewailing over poor and praying for those blind sinners it’s daily prayers, a feeling telepathy that matters yet like an unarmed savior. A silent drop its source of ease. Through self-deprecation-languish it can now take more than triple-punch at a time. A dissonant conceit can’t make a single attempt at encroaching into its grey domain for now.

Through diffidence marked by an autism as a medium of equanimity it yet asks, ‘Is it fated to be so ever?’ Through monotonous continuum of fraying and choking breaths in this cyclic existence it yet longs for ‘Can I make it after all?’ Through such fall it yet wishes such not be of an endless gravity, summons for a timely savior to lay a landing to walk again…

Yet, a miracle for only a dream sweet. A mercy it can’t seek for now, the probation set by the faith at stake. All blurry murky yet a beacon there; phantasmagoric muted yet tethering. 

Grant Me A Breath

Now the bloated sentiments wail,

The hovering elements glide inept,

The elegiac lamentation acute adept

Drifted by the dirge, hypnotic sail:

For granted taken not, yet spellbound,

The innate absurdity I fated for bound.

Take me there, thy crimson fragility!

Once, only once, grant me a breath,

The estranging entanglement depth

Deepening further shapeless crudity.

For granted taken not, yet spellbound,

The innate absurdity I fated for bound.

Confession

A consciousness palled,

A pair of withered feet plod on…

Driven by the heavy but bloated heart adrift—

Am I meant for so…?

The grandiose approach,

The mishandled pain ensued.

Destined but still through a scrimmage—

A dawn of hope stretched afar the horizon blurring.

A dogged silly heart it’s,

Still moving amid double more pains—

Numbed or crazed…a clear vision lost.

Then how there can be such as…

Oh, I see, mine is a lagging sort,

I yet carry on—a caring sense lost,

But only with this blind emotion,

So vague—I cry for a mercy!

Yes, yes, I confess the core point:

Fated and qualified it isn’t;

The strong sense unblended, redundant—

So pathetic I find it myself but cuffed unmovable.

A shower of mercy I seek not now;

Let it take what it deserves by!

A veil of haze falls to lock it further into captivity;

I should learn to like claustrophobia.

Ubiquitous Paleness

However dense the flurries I trudge through—
Muddled headed no place for fixation—
I grip on to it—the firmness I should prove—,
Facing pale, paler to desolate greyness everywhere.

Why even thou, the full moon last night,
Spotted that pale, morosely tarnished, upon me.
Standing and staring at from the narrow front yard,
I saw you cared for me, my friend!

And the stark naked neem tree beside,
The wilted torso and branches, sparse limp leaves,
Joined me too having nothing to hide its emotions;
An artistic view it created with the gleaming moon after all.

Yes, the depth of it I should reach,
The proof being spontaneously true I should find,
But not to show off: To simulate it is to fool myself.
This firmness, even if invalid, should stand trial along the time.

A STIR

Yet to hone and see,
How much more to go
The fullest realization ahead
I starve for…
A hue to be added—
This bleached heart so pale.

A scintillating thought,
A learning to draw closer
What a wise one prepossesses….foresees,
But it remains that unsullied,
Now a thin line surfaces
See how crude it is there!

Oh, yes, for it,
What it should be...
A new chapter unfurling.
How stupid I’ve been,
Unprepared, albeit honest and firm.
It isn’t ample—should see deeper.

And there, as I learn along,
The pain lies as said,
But mere indulgence I care not.
My ground is still firm,
A shield I have already built
To wage a war—what I find there.

More such painful stories pierce my numbed ears;
I still hold on being confident yet not unwittingly.
Spontaneous it is; strained how it can be—
Why I look deeper but still remain intact…

Hold the ground! I whimper ignorant of those peeps, gapes—
I don’t find it going down, but should hold the ground firm ever.
A ledge I can carve out from it, the precipice manageable,
A foothold I can and should find there—not from here, I lag far behind.

Its Countenance

I

Self-Proofing

Delving into and poring over the internal passion that has compelled me to wade through the quagmire of winding emotional warfare, I now happen to find a nuance--the comparison that should be studied and noted: really my part lacks the gist of being free of any hindrances and setbacks; it suffers from a sort of filth like personality based dignity maintenance that hauls me back to my only craving position, so crude and unqualified. I suffer and so I have to. Even if I can now identify my poor side, I find myself tethered there, to be there where I am. I withdraw that I should do being considerate towards the other side, if there is one, or no matter how ridiculous it is--an unilateral crudeness. "This part is over!" I hear an inner voice, but I can't grasp what it tries to say. Isn't withdrawing justifiable? Who is there to answer this question of mine? I think you can't just simplify what is complicated and complicate what is simple--I learned it from a quote by Arundhati Roy, one of my favourite ones.

II

A Looming Shadow

A predicament there can be,
A malaise, a dilemma and so on...
To learn, to hone, to put to test--
How eligible you are.

But, wait, even there can be,
Wonder an epitome to compare with,
A standard to judge it:
How deep your pain is.

I confess I failed.
"Your ground is shaky!"
I take it as I feel it--
This limp heart is almost defunct.

Still from the overcast night sky
I see the reflection of rays,
No, can't be a beacon but a light
I can stare at, the only illumination.

With my shaky ground,
I crane, swivel my head
Is there any I can spot around--not at all.
I find I am blind from within.