My feet are wandering neath the alien star,
My native land, – the road is far and long.
Yet the same light of Venus and Mars
Falls on the small green valley of Rebkong.

Rebkong, – I left thee and my heart behind,
My boyhood’s dusty plays, – in far Tibet.
Karma, that restless stallion made of wind,
In tossing me; where will it land me yet?

Like autumn cloud I float, soon, there, soon here,
I know not what the fleeting moons may bring.
Here in this land of roses, fair Kashmir,
My years are closing around me like a ring.

Fate sternly sits at Destiny’s hard loom
And irrevoked her tangled pattern weaves
The winds are blowing around my father’s tomb
And I but dream of those still summer eves,
When – child – I listened to my mother’s voice,
Whose stories made my youthful heart rejoice.

So far, so far I may not see those graves.
Ah, friend, these separation pangs are sore.
My heart is thrown upon the ocean waves
Where shall at last reach a peaceful shore?

I’ve drunk of holy Ganga’s glistening wave,
I’ve sat beneath the sacred Bodhi tree,
Whose leaves the wanderer’s weary spirit lave.
Thou sacred land of Ind, I honour thee,
But, oh, that like valley of Rebkong,
The sylvan brook which flows that vale along.


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