He slowly gathers up his shaggy herd
To prepares them for the lowlands,
While wolves get hungrier and braver;
The sun’s rays freezing in the breeze.
Already he feels the longing to remain free
Here he can sing and train his thoughts on
Matters that follow no boundaries,
Yet nature overrules his wondering too far.
Nine loads of butter wrapped in dried-gut
Lies freezing while he thaws the saddlebags
For busy days in the city of butter-lights
Much too crowded for a solitary nomad.
His yaks can bare the cold and storms
That blanket the plains but he must move on.
His head clear of soggy-dung smoke
Trapped in the hearth where fires burned.
Smell the Roses
Stoop gently and smell the roses
Frost is lurking by the wayside.
Even daylight saving time
Won’t stop sweet blossoms
From crashing to cold earth!