Even the stone, gray and aging, the young,
tender mud by the creek where children wade
with their skirts hoisted to the knees purse their
lips, cooing. Their soft voices dillydallying,
like a vagrant song in the breeze
as if in wooing. All the lifeless things fitted
inside a hearse, Venus’ cerise lips rendered
anew; the blacken, beating, vibrant as scarlet,
the weakened wight, revived. You are a jolt
of electricity through flesh, bone and sinew.
There is a saying in Tibetan, ‘Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.’
No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that’s our real disaster.