I am the wind that sings on Mount Everest's frosty nights
I am the joy of mama's dishes
The pain of that stings and bites
I am the tears on old men's jaw lines
dry and salty flowing till it sleeps on the laces of their war boots,
I am the veteren's son that was never born.
I am the song of a foreigner,
I am a tune of ballads sang only by the sorrowful,
A youthful soul dying in an old world.
I am a hymn of salt and sugar
I am the white beds of December
The black birds on Mount Everest's fountain.