(A Funeral in Tibet)
The priests and kin
bear the deceased
upward, further up, higher:
where the sun and the ice
sleep in the same bed
but cannot touch each other.
The vultures follow them
with light and poised leaps,
as if coming to a mourning feast;
clack sharply with their beaks,
flap sadly with their wings
waiting for their turn.
Then descend over the corpse,
eat eagerly – bury him in themselves
and take his grave to the sky
where all is wide and pure.
All is pure on earth as well:
the wind wipes off the tears
of the priests and the kin
who, sitting aside, watch the skill
of the great masters
and the way they finish their job
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski