caitheann braonta báistí lámhainní dornálaíochta,
na mílte díobh
ina ruathar
agus tugann bascadh dom’ sheomrasa.
Faoin díon stáin
tosnaíonn mo sheomra ag caoineadh go géar goirt
agus fliuchann mo leaba, mo chuid páipéar.
Uaireanta tagann an bháisteach ghlic
aniar aduaidh orm,
ardaíonn na fallaí fealltacha
na sála acu agus ligeann tuile bheag
isteach sa seomra.
Suímse ar mo leaba – oileán-náisiún –
agus féachaim ar mo thír faoi uisce,
nótaí mar gheall ar shaoirse,
cuimhní cinn ar laethanta i bpríosún,
litreacha ó chairde a bhí sa choláiste liom,
grabhróga aráin
agus núdail Maggi
ag éirí go beoga go dtí an dromchla
ar nós cuimhne a cailleadh
is a tháinig ar ais gan choinne.
Trí mhí de chéasadh,
monsún i measc na ngiúiseanna is a gcuid spíonta
na Himáilithe glanta ag lonrú
faoi sholas an tráthnóna.
Go dtí go suaimhneoidh an bháisteach
is go n-éireoidh as an seomra a bhascadh
is gá dom sólás a thabhairt don díon stáin
atá ar diúité
ó aimsir Raj na Breataine.
Is iomaí duine gan dídean
a fuair bheith istigh sa seomra seo.
Tá sé gafa anois ag an mongús,
ag an luch, an laghairt is an damhán alla,
ar páirt-chíos agamsa.
Téann sé go croí ionam gur seomra ar cíos
is baile dom.
Níl bean an tí ar Caismíreach í –
ceithre scór bliain d’aois – in ann dul abhaile.
Is minic sinn ag argóint cé acu is áille
an Chaismír nó an Tibéid.
Fillimse gach aon tráthnóna
ar mo sheomra ar cíos;
ach ní mar seo a chaillfear mé.
Caithfidh go bhfuil slí éigin
amach as an áit seo.
Nílimse in ann caoineadh mar a chaoineann mo sheomra.
Ghoileas mo dhóthain
i bpríosúin agus
le linn babhtaí beaga éadóchais.
Caithfidh go bhfuil slí éigin
amach as an áit seo.
Nílimse in ann caoineadh
tá mo sheomra fliuch go leor cheana féin.
Tenzin Tsundue
When it rains in Dharamshala
When it rains in Dharamshala
raindrops wear boxing gloves,
thousands of them
come crashing down
and beat my room.
Under its tin roof
my room cries from inside
and wets my bed, my papers.
Sometimes the clever rain comes
from behind my room,
the treacherous walls lift
their heels and allow
a small flood into my room.
I sit on my island-nation bed
and watch my country in flood,
notes on freedom,
memoirs of my prison days,
letters from college friends,
crumbs of bread
and Maggi noodles
rise sprightly to the surface
like a sudden recovery
of a forgotten memory.
Three months of torture,
monsoon in the needle-leafed pines
Himalaya rinsed clean
glistens in the evening sun.
Until the rain calms down
and stops beating my room
I need to console my tin roof
who has been on duty
from the British Raj.
This room has sheltered
many homeless people.
Now captured by mongooses
and mice, lizards and spiders,
and partly rented by me.
A rented room for home
is a humbling existence.
My Kashmiri landlady
at eighty cannot return home.
We often compete for beauty
Kashmir or Tibet.
Every evening,
I return to my rented room;
but I am not going to die this way.
There has got to be
some way out of here.
I cannot cry like my room
I have cried enough
in prisons and
in small moments of despair.
There has got to be
some way out of here.
I cannot cry,
my room is wet enough.
Tenzin Tsundue
https://www.tenzintsundue.com/poems/when-it-rains-in-dharamshala/
