Your soul, which loves my soul,
is woven with it into the Tibetan rug.
Ray upon ray, enamoured colours,
stars that wooed each other the length of heaven.
Our feet rest upon this precious thing,
a thousand-thousand stitches wide.
Sweet son of the lama, on a throne of musk plants,
how long, I wonder, has your mouth kissed mine,
and cheek against cheek, through brightly knotted ages?