Poem by a Tibetan Monk living in Mcleoadganj
“Amidst vast fields of wildflowers, I recall the days of childhood play—when stone powder became rice and grass our vegetables, as my young cousins and I pretended to feast. I remember gathering grass and flowers for our cattle in the lush meadows of my homeland. Each time I touch my water filter to fill my bottle, it transports me to the crystal-clear rivers fed by the pristine snow-capped mountains of my village, Mamata, in Tibet. Lobsang, once a nomadic shepherd, holds those memories close—of a childhood filled with beauty, yet marked by the sorrow of leaving it behind at a young age. He arrived in India at 19, and today, as a Buddhist monk, he feels deeply blessed to have found refuge in this sacred land. Lobsang has a deep love for writing poetry, each verse a tender reflection of his childhood memories and the landscapes of his beloved homeland. Through his poems, he captures the essence of his motherland, weaving nostalgia and longing into every line.
This beautiful poem by Lobsang Wangdu reflects a deep appreciation for the natural world and the effortless way beauty and abundance unfold in one’s homeland. It emphasizes the self-sustaining richness of nature, where all things come into being without force, highlighting the harmony between the people and their environment. The English translation isn’t doing justice to this beautiful poem, but still sharing so we may glimpse the haunting beauty of a land that stirs melancholy deep within the hearts of Tibetans.
Happy Life – Lobsang Wangdu
མ་བཞེངས་རང་བྱུང་རི་ལུང་བཀོད་ལེགས་མཛེས །།
མ་བཏབ་མེ་ཏོག་སྣ་བརྒྱའི་དྲི་ངད་འཐུལ །།
མ་བྲིས་རང་ཡུལ་ཕྱུག་མོ་གསེར་གྱི་ལྗོངས །།
མ་རྨོས་རྩི་ཤིང་ནགས་ཚལ་འབད་མེད་འཕྱུར །།
མ་བོས་དབྱངས་ཀྱི་ཁུ་བྱུག་རྒྱལ་མོ་བྱོན །།
མ་བསྐུལ་བུང་བ་མེ་ཏོག་ཟེའུ་འབྲུར་འཁོར །།
མ་དང་བེའུའི་ནོར་གནག་ལྷས་ར་ཁེངས །།
མ་ཆུར་འོ་ཞོ་འཐུང་རྒྱུ་ཆེ་གཅིག་ཞིམ །།
མ་ཕབ་སྦྲང་ཆར་སིལ་མ་རང་འབབ་རེད །།
མ་བཀུག་འཇའ་ཡི་གུར་ཁང་ངང་གི་ཕུབ །།
མ་བཟང་བུ་མོའི་འབྲི་མོ་འཇོའི་དུས །།
འབྲོག་པའི་ཁྱིམ་གཞིའི་གཡས་གཡོན་ཆེ་གཅིག་སྐྱིད །།
Sent back to the fatherland, it rises again, Mountains and valleys, carved by their own hand, No seed was sown, yet a hundred flowers bloom, Their sweet perfume lingers in the vast expanse.
No painter’s touch, yet the fields shine gold, Without toil, forests flourish, untamed and bold. No call is made, yet the birds return in song, Carrying with them the queen of melodies along.
No urging stirs the butterfly’s flight, Yet it dances around the blossoms in delight. The wild creatures grow rich in numbers and pride, No need, for the milk and honey flow wide.
No rain must fall, yet the softest drops descend, The rainbow’s arc spreads without the need to bend. No hand guides the maidens’ brush as they write, Yet their words grace the season with delicate light.
On both sides of the nomad’s tent, joy swells, As wide as the plains, where their happiness dwells. The nomads smile in the embrace of their land, While farmers reap joy from fields they’ve planned.
In the highlands, the plains, the nomads, the kin, Each finds their blessings in the lands they’re within. For here, in the earth that nourishes them all, The land returns its gifts, without a call.
