When I saw him he was already gone. Right here.
From here to there long strands of hair 
        fluttering in the air. Streamers of sutra.
A ray of light flares, dies.
The snow is melting.
Are your knees sore?
I'd rather fall out between hadas.
        I'd rather be a storyteller with nothing in my hands.
See how darkness fills the eyes, melts in the mouth.
Spirit over matter.
Lotus and nectar along the pilgrim road.
Take one step and you're gone from where you are.
Mountain and water. Yak butter and zamba for food.
        I want to raise my tent
        in a perfect place.
        But the rope is broken.
The snow melts slowly. There's no need to race the day.
No one values treasure. Once it's stolen, regret comes too late.
The incense is still burning.
Those who have lost their gods -- what should they do? Guess!
Sing and dance to your heart's content.
We die and are reborn from small wounds.
Within the sutra's sounds a spider spins her web.
A simple landscape -- in thin air.
A horse carries you to your destination.
        Horses run from the grasslands.
        Half have already fled.
        It's not the hearts of the horses
        but of the riders that are emtpy.
        People turn and turn.

Where is the road?
I turn my head suddenly and he isnšt there.
I grow rich selling beads.
I brought a man to his garden
and in the village I found a brass spoon.
Is it a blessing or a curse in disguise?
I drift with my days.
The sun is too big and too black.
In my sleep people arrived.
Some left to follow the rich, going
to their death. Tears fall, enough to fill buckets.
Don't forget to take shoes and a hat when you disappear.
Words afloat in the air cast shadows that are blue. 
You look good in Tibetan clothes, you wear them like a banner.
Barley from the highlands is no longer good for brewing beer.
Nonetheless when praising its great taste people smack their lips.
Om mani padme hum.
If it turns out the place is fun, we'll stay.
We drink any tea that's sweet.
Damn! What -- are you pregnant again?
Leaves are falling. So what's going on?
Pick up an instrument -- let her try it.
Tears streak his twisted face.
"Wake up! Wake up!" the baby says.
I know him.
A huge mushroom appeared just outside the door the day he was born.
In the palm of his left was the image of an eye.
His mother fled, this world was no longer for her.
Why do you melt so slowly, snow?
Bad weather in the end drives one to anger. Only I remain,
like this, not here and not there.
        To the west of Lhasa, the swamp was used as an execution ground.
        Ghastly at night. I'm in love with the only language I know.
        But where are my beads?
The one with the twisted head still weeps.
And still, no one cares.
In this world, we can't choose even a hair.
So we dream.