A rose garden at altitude under occupation

Photo by Tim Cooper on Unsplash

In mid-winter
I picture the rose garden,
the secret garden of my soul,
where all that is good and all that is fine
are written in a tender-script divine
where persian berries tantalise
the figs are fine and the wine just fine
and chinese herbs help me see
the tibetan plateau, golden,all around me
where all that is, is being free,
the air so rare and the skies so high
while chinese troops are passing by,
my temple is my privilige,
as my death will be,
for all that I love, I see.