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.

Where Persian berries tantalise us
And dates from Al'Andalus tempt us
And the figs are fine and the wine just divine.

And Chinese herbs help me see
The Tibetan plateau shining all around me;
Where all that is, is being free;
The air is rare and the skies so high
While Chinese troops are passing by.

My temple is my privilege,
As my death will be,
For all that I love, I see.