I will die in the mountains in the season of rains
When the clouds will crawl the slopes along
And the lark, when the lunar disk wanes,
Will continue to sing his melodious song.
No one will be asking if I'm well.
When I die, nobody will mourn.
I'll be leaving the old vajra and bell
And my clothes will be ragged and torn.
Lizards will gnaw on my bones and gristles,
In the skull will be nestling a snake.
On the brink of a cave will grow the thistles,
For a thief, there'll be nothing to take.
Thoughts will be gone and all regrets discarded,
The end will come with yogi's dream fulfilled.
What will be left? The verses, not completed,
And dust, just blown by the wind…
Monsoon song
© Copyright: Александр Дорджеев, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113051707040
Свидетельство о публикации №113051707040
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