O Lhasa, dreamlike nights!
A certain lotus may have never bloomed,
Sometimes a wineglass shatters at a tap,
Yet there are people, just a few—who blessed
Them with such spirit?—to whom this movable feast
Seems Paradise for banishment self−chosen.
If (imperceptibly) they weep, it’s only
For a kinsman whom they couldn’t keep.
O Lhasa, nights of woe!
A certain bluebird may have never chirped,
And sometimes garments are begrimed with dust,
Yet there are people, just a few—who spread
That plague?—who see bright fleeting Time as but
A pool wherein the posturing ego sinks.
Illusions countless, ever so seductive,
Can’t lure a reincarnate kinsman back.
O Lhasa, nights like nowhere else! (
A love there is that never came to pass,
And certain bloodlines gradually mixed,
Yet there’s a man, perhaps just one—what kind
Of lightning bolt?—who makes a stifling fate
Serve as the hinge of reconciliation.
Upon the endless wheel of birth and death
I wish you would forever be my kin!