Potala
Red atop of white,
A giant to the city
But puny under the
Snow capped mountains,
The palace waits in vain for
Its’ owner to return.
It is cold in April.
The lilacs bravely bloom.
Birds court and build nests
Snow remains low
On the mountains with the Yaks,
And the peaks are bright
Against the blue clear sky.
Tibet’s rebirth into China
Has been painful and unsought,
Leaving a wound that
Only the rebirth of
The awaited 15th
Will heal.
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