Unsullied by the world, with conscience free,
He sits in contemplation, hour on hour,
Of one small point on his anatomy
From which he gathers strength and mystic power.
Not for him the hero’s wide acclaim,
The soldier’s glory, nor the merchant’s prize;
Deaf is he to trumpetings of fame,
Blind to the promise in a woman’s eyes.
For him no cleaving to ephemeral things—
No ties to trap his feet in tangled ways
That snare the steps of diplomats and kings—
No fear of blame, and no desire for praise.
Supremely blessed, the holy Lama sits,
Heedless of bombs that blast the world to bits.