Iíve 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.