He sits and gazes with a song upon his lips
While his yak herds graze: he and they
Are a part of that immense grassy waste
That stretches desolate where wild winds rage.
All through the day he sings: all else about
Him as if glued to his hoarse voice.
Strange melancholy sails on the sea of grass
At times outsung by the wind's howling song.
At intervals he gathers up his chuba sleeves
To crack his woven sling: at its sound
His shaggy friends throng onward to fresh grass
Coarse, but sweet enough to fill 'til dusk.
Here there are no birds or smell of men
For miles on end, only grazing masses,
Like islands on a calm sea, smeared with colored life,
To welcome a lone traveler, baffled by isolation.
Then, as day wanes and wild winds grow chill,
He gathers the herd with cheerful wolf calls
And shambles behind them, home to the distant tents
That greet and balm the day's toil with rest.
- Gyalpo Tsering
CULTURE
