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SILK ROAD
A herd of sheep roam on the meadows ornamented with
turquoise
flowers;
The crow caws on the pine branch, conversing easily with
the magpie.
Flags flutter on a cairn, on a red rock peak where vultures
nest.
From a black tent amidst dark old yak folds smoke rises
gently,
And the conches and drums of invited lamas echo in the
distance--
Irrepressibly happy and sad to see the highlands of the
snow land
Tibet.
Traveling, listening to the whistling wind, crossing
thousands of
ridges but still not seeing the end of the
earth;
Irritated by the gossip of the brooks, crossing thousands
of rivers but
still not reaching the end of the sky;
Never reaching the goal of the nomad's black tent in the
distance--
It is too tiring for the horses and mules: better to pitch
our tent
where pasture, water and firewood are
plentiful.
10 November 1972
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