I am making my book titled The Wings of Songs (original title: Dreaming and Drifting Drenching) available for our valuable online readers. This softcopy is slightly edited version. You may download this full pdf book from this website: https://drive.google.com/drive/my-drive
The Wings of Songs
(Original Titled Book: Dreaming and Drifting Drenching)
A scintillating set of poems and stories
(Included award-winning articles)
Author: Saacha Dorji
First published in June 10, 2010
Slightly Edited in February 2015
Dreaming and Drifting Drenching
Copyright©2010, Saacha Dorji
Printed at KMT Phuntsholing, Bhutan.
No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in any form by any means including photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.
I rededicate this book
To my son Pema Tashi,
Wife Tshewang Dema
Who truly gave
Me wings to fly high!
The Wings of Song
(Dreaming and Drifting Drenching)
Life is a block of wood; a carver models it into the best but at an old age-when one becomes perfectly experienced. Every drills and grills is a tick of torment to life. It gashes to a perfectly imperfect time of life. And we start over again in next life.
A Chiseling Life
A carver lost in chiseling the wood;
Modeling it into the finest,
He himself carefully carves into.
As I look on him,
And my life rolls down:
The creaks of sculpting a block
While removing jarring angles
Etch a torment.
Are those pains impasses of life?
Life mills to live,
It’s a fume out of crumble and splinter.
Every bit a loss and gain!
This act recurs,
And flusters like the hollow wood resonant.
On a course;
There is no sojourn to emotive and bodily fidgets.
Often, the disquiet chronic writ large on mark;
The happiness or silence-hung grim all around
They were free of beginnings or ends,
They unfold in myriad ways,
One likes to live a life, careless and free,
But the player lot is on the line;
Come to clutches with it, be slaves of it.
These forms to befit a good mortal
Like the crafter fits the pieces
Yet, this good human is qualified
When at old age is unqualified,
And ends very near like a child,
Then falls bodily asleep.
How many times we hear creaks?
How many times we crumble and splinter?
How many times are we milled?
To hope for?
We never are finest how many times?
As novice anew voyage embark
And get down to chiseling all over again,
To slice life in the life of a new beginning!
Two things in the life never betrayed; the God and the Parent- to whom the sky shines and for why it shines, the meaning of life is for them and what life meant is taught by them. When falling has a fall there remains dear parents. They formed the kingdom in a small realm of life.
Tell me, I ask myself,
What is on your mind?
What I have always had
Fixated for all time.
Nothing but my sacrificing father
Providing for me his dependent child
And my ever supportive mother
For bringing me life, keeping me alive.
Our kind wise king and royal family-
I speak from my heart frankly-
You have made our surroundings
A paradise on earth for me.
To a Father, Who is Seeking his Spiritual Life?
Father, the builder of family circle;
Six children and a wife,
He, for devoutly spiritual pursuit is gone,
And spent days, weeks, and months away?
To them, hopes of his children are left.
What has this religion begotten?
Is it spiritual discipline?
He talks to the roots
The realization of angelic enlightened
It’s only gossip,
Belief made different
And one more does much!
‘Choey’ is not where you go, selfish
To shower the grace,
While leaving others to suffer
Can we connect God with such injustices?
How many butter lamps, rites and rituals,
Repeating mantras and scriptures,
Pile of gold in the shrines,
Or deep forest confining and
To the Bodh Gaya;
Renunciation is not mysticism
Rather, attitude towards life should be.
Godly is being together with
Your children, parents, wife and all individuals
Saintly is unwavering faith and loyalty to the Tsawasum,
The Bodh Gaya is in home and workplaces,
God is everywhere for everyone
You offer yourself to the service of others
Being good, doing good
Conscience and consciousness
Is the inner soul of yours?
Living and exhibiting happy environs;
Through happiness comes compassion
And compassion is the virtuous sacred contemplation.
The path of religion is as of death
Death is the sole divinity
Look at the face of your children
Dying before their death
Agonies of your arrival - eagerly starved.
‘Spiritual’ is on the face of people
And it ends in there,
It’s the deeds and actions that shapes
The world we inhabit
Being a server is Buddha-hood
Who, being Buddha-hood is still a server?
Outward worships bring little transformation,
In the absence of basic factor of love and care?
You are the Buddha
You true can return in heaven with these deeds -
That is true religion.
*Tsawasum- head, government and people
Silence has internal silence that keeps the soul with so many muses. These muses are sounds of existence; bad or good. Silence with thoughts and speeches without meaning is what animals live.
The Sound of Musing
I am an ear,
My mind’s radar.
I am all ears:
The wind has a voice.
It rustles, it whispers,
It is understood,
Speaking of wasteland
Of rivers running clear,
Of myriad darkness revealed.
I hear pleasant songs
Still the world’s
Not so nice for me.
I lie down lonely to sleep.
While walking on
I fall from vertigo to grief.
Is it the lack of lucre?
No, more want of wit.
Is it the fear of death?
Not at all!! Cheerless faith.
I am an ear,
Buffeted by sound,
Touching my thinking.
And this is the life I lead:
Rain of Bliss
After much deprivation,
A shower to clean earth;
Everyone is happy and merry
Everyone shows their teeth
They come out to receive the first fall,
To get awash is their fondness.
As far I could see, is rejoicing,
After the long drought sweltering;
Plants wilted the flowers in the buds,
Animals and birds wondered-away,
Dejected pathetic people had calamitous living!
Now, in the rain everyone seems exulted
Like a cheerful tears from the eyes.
Leaves dance on the dripping of the rain,
Countable animals expose in the meadows to drench,
Dancing clouds shroud the valleys,
The dusty earth sprinkle wet
Some say it’s ‘holy grail.’
Well, the rain mop baths,
The place has rejuvenated.