There’s a wind in your eyes that blows
Across the high plains of the world,
Whispering the stories of soon to be forgotten
Dead men and women who no longer
Worship at the feet of boddhisattvas.
Then you tell me your name,
And how it is said in your village.
Like the spirits called forth for
The dalai lama’s trance
I learn that you have no last name.
You are just as you are.
You are the one who sits at a table of fried eggs
Across from pretend italian pasta,
The one who stands firm on the soil of her ancestors,
The one who won’t forget.
You are the new song
That sings the world.