Posts by Lowell Cook

A poem from the edge of the desert – by Lowell Cook

the day’s end brings us to the end of the earth

where dust has gathered for centuries

like aged wine, it has a rather refined taste 

swirling on the tip of your tongue and mine.

A short story by Pema Tseden, translated by Lowell Cook

The end of winter is about to arrive. Listening to the sound of the cold wind whipping outside, I really miss that room and its warmth.

I’m traversing the side-streets alone, tracing my way back to that room, but now, the room remains empty.

Yesterday, it snowed. With the snowfall, the weather has turned extremely cold. Not the slightest trace of warmth remains in the room which now lies empty. Meanwhile, a few dust-covered objects shiver from the cold. And, as for the room itself, it seems unpleasantly chilly now that the scent of people has long since faded.

Towards the end of winter last year, the room was still filled with warmth. That was only because he – my heart’s true love – was there. Whenever it snowed, we would set out along those little streets blanketed in snow and head back to the room. Even though it’d be freezing inside the room, the nights the two of us spent together there were full of warmth.