I do not make my abode
On the lofty mountain peaks
For the way of ice and snow
Is not my way.
I have pitched my tent beside you, friend,
In the valley of human experience.
Bring me your tender joys
And I will feed them corn
From my own hands
And take delight as they chirp beside my door.
Give me your mewing sorrows;
I will cradle and stroke them lovingly,
For they are mine.
I hang your tears
As prayer flags in the breeze,
I wear your smiles,
A garland on my breast.
Let me iron the creases of perplexity
And sweep the dust of confusion from your heart.
I will untie your heavy boots of weariness
And worship them on the altar of our longing.
I pour myself into your thirsty cup,
Offer my grief as ointment for your wounds.
The ringing of your laughter and your cries
Has called me to this holy pilgrimage.
I have come to you from the lofty mountain peaks
For the way of ice and snow is not my way.