Towards Lhasa
We discussed the smell
Of the monk who set himself on fire,
Shaking our heads in half-disbelief
As our tour guides made dinner.
We camped early along the banks of
The Lhasa River,
The terrain rough-hewed and ragged.
The sunset, intense orange and purple, matching
The orange flames of our campfire matching
Those that ate his flesh.
In Liuwuxiang we waited as our gear dried.
We inquired, with barely a concern,
As to precisely where he burned,
How much further to the spot in Ngawa and
Was the spot worshiped like a shrine?
To forgotten freedom? Was there
A plaque to commemorate?
No one talked to us about the Why.
Half- hearted questions met with steel eyes.
Such questions are better not asked
Such words carry too much weight
Baggage packed with an official taboo
Burning the tongue before utterance.
We discussed the smell of a monk on fire.
His ashes washed away long ago
But the smoke still presents a challenge
The stench of burning flesh
A common pain that may never leave.
Poets note: Most of the self immolation that has occurred in Tibet have been in the Ngawa region, not in Lhasa. Access to Ngawa is forbidden by the Chinese government for most from the west, and internet access has been severely restricted. I chose to use Lhasa in this poem to reinforce these restrictions.
For more information, go to this website; https://www.freetibet.org/about/self-immolation-protests
