I’ve looted mountain abbeys in Nepal,
And marveled at their gods of tangerine,
And idols with huge eyes of beryls green
To gape at arcane writings on the wall.
Now when I sleep my mind is like a squall
In Winter climes. No more am I serene
And all regard me as a thing unclean
From Bombay to the ports of Senegal.
So now I wander where the steep trails rise
Above the plain, beyond the cold plateau,
My life is bleak and far from Paradise
As I track through this endless waste of snow,
For I am unrepentant as the drums
Of some stupendous death till karma comes.