Never will you reach that silver mountain
which appears like a cloud of joy in the evening light.
Never can you cross that lake of salt
which treacherously smiles at you in the morning mist.
Every step on this road takes you farther
away from home, from flowers, from spring.
Sometimes the shade of a cloud will dance on the road,
sometimes you rest in a ruined caravansary,
seeking the Truth from the blackish tresses of smoke,
sometimes you walk a few steps with a kindred soul
only to lose him again.
You go and go, torn by the wind, burnt by the sun
and the shepherd’s flute tells you “the Path in blood”.
until you cry no more, until the lake of salt,
is only your dried-up tears which mirror the mountain of joy
that is closer to you than your heart