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Palden Gyatso comes to town

By Anne Hanley

I always go to hear
Tibetan monks
even though
I can barely understand
their words.
I go to see their round,
earth faces;
to see the mirth
behind their eyes.
I go to watch the slides
that document
their unspeakable suffering
without dampening
their belly laughs.
I go to watch the faces
of the audience
melt. I go to watch
everybody’s eyes fill up
as if they were all holding
newborn babies
in their arms.

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