I was born in the Himalayas
and maybe this is why I speak with a faint echo
of the mountains.
Ever so faintly, people hear me speak.
I have followed frigid shudders of voice
in my head, the snow mounds of high peaks falling apart sheentral,
I duck down then run away leaving behind Kangri's hot embers
dousing little by little.
My blood runs hot, I take off my pheran, the traditional warmth
wearing off like someone was skinning me.
That makes my voice shudder with fear.
I gasp in the hollowness within the peaks
the huge chambers of stones.
And I don't look it
I look like the discoloration
of big avocado pulp thriving in creamy delicacy of green
What I mean is
in the valley beneath the cream
the sweet sea green froth
I am the ochre
flaccid emptiness of the stem surrounding.
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