in the majestic medicinal land of snow,
bubbles of joy now mounting up.
Amidst the melancholic flute of a drizzle,
in the arched drum of the rainbow
blow the winds of truth
chasing the clouds to the far north
Flowers of our prayers in thousands bloom.
The pain of our suffering slowly wanes
as the south wind of solidarity blows.
In the clear blue sky
white clouds of joy start to dance.
neither being rich,
nor being a beggar,
sparkling spectacle Potala,
in the illuminated small window
dazzles your face like a blossom.
Oh … the grand mellowed sun,
now in serene golden rays.
The heart that bled inside
was all for truth to prevail.
Defeated, but never cried