The gentle breeze,
Caresses the tender millet stalks
The field dances like it’s intoxicated,
Twisting and turning, it tells the story
Of the tumbleweed to the fragrant grass:
Alas! Youth fades, glory decays; easily replaced.
Look, the stout young man
In the blink of an eye,
He is bending like a Bhutanese bow.
Tsangyang Gyatso (1683-1706)
