I became motionless,
When the shadow of a ghost appeared.
My heartbeat has slowed,
Since trusting the law of Karma.
Having grasped the fate of history,
I criticised my mother,
I overturned my ancestral grave.
My mother was enraged,
She accused me of being a disgrace,
And threw the spit of her frustration in my face
I was not frightened of her accusation,
Nor disappointed at her spitting in my face.
But, a feeling of restraint bound my heart
And has been concealed for years.
The wind storm raged
And swept away my mother’s tent
The rain fell hard,
And soaked the nomad’s Tsampa.
Again, I began to criticise my mother.
“If the tent rope is secure,
What harm can a strong wind cause?”
“If the Tsampa sack has no hole,
How can it be dampened by heavy rain?”
Amid the mud and yak dung,
My mother’s smile appeared.
A nomad’s life is consumed
Among the horse’s whinnies.
Again, I began to overturn my ancestral grave,
Their faces, not distinguished by either loss or gain,
Held no victorious smile,
No suffering from defeat.
Upon their faces, only a winding picture of history remained clear.