Nyilam: Collection of Poems
Drugmo lives
August 3, 2010

The only thing that breathes is the sound of engine

Relentless in its climb against the steep rugged pass

Palms cold with sweat, eyes too awake for their sockets

Somewhere I heard a cry in the wild, was it my own voice?

Sounds drum in and out, sometimes it is my own, sometimes it is theirs’

Half of everything made sense; the rest was a strange spasm.

To think just yesterday I was filled with hope

Finally life held a distinct shape

But one should have known journeys like mine never end'

I am a spinning wheel blown in all directions

I am the eternal misfit’s voice.

They have stopped moving now

In front of us is the town, barely visible without the streetlights

Inside the dark grey building, a lone thought zipped by

Where is everyone?  Where the fuck is everyone?!

I am lying on the bed" I have to sleep, I need to sleep now.

But I am so afraid for tomorrow will be hell.

The walls inch closer against the heart, how fragile is freedom!

Men of the Tibetan nights I see them coming now

In loose dark suits and their monstrous cars

Scream!

I force my eyes open until the silhouettes fade

Beaten by the light of the ugly moon.

Yes you are here! Here in a little apartment across a golf course

Choked by featherlight pillows -- this  is absurd!

I wait for sunlight unable to sleep

Am I meant to tell stories of injustice?

Perhaps I am crippled by the baggage of the past"

Some say for your sake move on

Others insist people have a right to know the story.