In mid-winter
I picture the rose garden,
the secret garden of my soul,
where all that is good and all that is fine
is written in a tender-script divine
and where persian berries tantalise me
and the dates from al’andalus tempt us all.

The figs are tasty and the wine just fine
chinese herbs help me see
the tibetan plateau in all its majestic beauty
all around me sublimity.

Here, all that is, is being free,
the air is rare and the skies high
while chinese troops are passing by.
My temple is my privilige
as my death will be
for all that I love, I see.