Looking for the Dalai Lama in all the wrong places
These days he is often lost
In a sea of white faces
Lhasa echoes hollowly without him
Wind whipping the monk's robes
Once with the winds of the Far East Nation
Then running from the red state police
Now with the fire of self immolation
Perhaps he will consent when this current coil expires
To return once again to the heights of Lhasa
With tiny hands to grasp something that once was his
And a heavyweight task upon his small head
Spinning prayer wheels
Tying colorful cloth
Creating sand images
And freeing Tibet
These days he is often lost
In a sea of white faces
Lhasa echoes hollowly without him
Wind whipping the monk's robes
Once with the winds of the Far East Nation
Then running from the red state police
Now with the fire of self immolation
Perhaps he will consent when this current coil expires
To return once again to the heights of Lhasa
With tiny hands to grasp something that once was his
And a heavyweight task upon his small head
Spinning prayer wheels
Tying colorful cloth
Creating sand images
And freeing Tibet
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