Nepalese Survivor

Kimtang village is off the beaten track In this pure land where people are dirt poor The country is achingly beautiful Mists drift from sheer-drop waterfalls Buddhist prayer wheels spin in the crystal air The Himalayan Mountains are dragons’ teeth White fangs rooted in green Fields climb like steps up their steep amphitheatre The earthquake shook Nepal to its foundation Toppling homes like toys in a temper tantrum Now, temples like concertinas creak at crazy angles Homes are strewn like straw across the roads Mouth-masked helpers dish out tents and rice packs The stench of death crawls up from funeral pyres Where will the poor ones live? What will become of them when the press move on, With the monsoon rains so near and corpses leaking? The rhododendron bushes continue to bloom The tourists jet away to their safe horizons In the midst of this sits Mr Funchu Tamang One hundred and one years old, Born when the Ghurkhas marched to the poppy war Twenty three when slaves were banned in his country Six kings have come and gone Like ghosts of Sherpas, under his frugal watch Dressed in a Western T-shirt, bone-tired-weary He sits in his life’s ruins, facing foreign cameras, Whilst Western coffers empty their loose change.