A young nun I am, seventeen years of age;

My head is shaven since early girlhood.

All this is for my father who loves reading

The Buddhist sutras, and my mother—

She loves the Buddhist monks and abbots

In their orange robes and brown frocks

With heavy bronze buckle, a staff in hand,

Clanking evenly while walking with.

Morning and night, morning and night,

I burn incense and I pray without stopping.

For I was born a sickly child, full of ills,

So my parents decided to send me here,

Into this monastery for nuns hidden deeply

From the public eye in these cold mountains.

Amitabha! Amitabha! Unceasingly I pray.

Namas Amitabha! Namas Amitabha!

O how greatly tired I am of the humming

Of these drums and the tinkling of the bells;

O how greatly tired I am of the droning

Of the prayers and the crooning of the priors;

O how greatly tired I am of the chatter

And of the clatter and of the tittle-tattle

Of unintelligible charms, the clamour

And the clangour of interminable chants,

The mumbling and the murmuring

Of monotonous psalms. Panjnaparamita,

Mayura-sutra, Saddharamapundarika—

O how much I hate them all! While I utter:

“Amitabha,” I sigh for my admirer;

While I chant para, my heart cries, "Oh, no!"

While I sing panjra, my heart palpitates,

It palpitates so hard! Let me take a little walk,

Let me take a little bit of air—I just choke. . .

All rare visitors here just laugh at me,

They’re laughing at me for when beauty is past

And youth is lost: Who will marry an old crone?

When beauty is faded and youth is jaded,

Who will marry an old shrivelled cocoon?

Some of them, holding a dragon, they’re cynical;

Some of them, riding a tiger, they look quizzical;

And some of them seem pitiful, for what

Will become of me when my beauty is gone?

These candles of the altar, they’re not for my bridal;

These long incense-containers, they are not

For my bedchamber. And the straw prayer-cushions,

They cannot serve as quilt or cover. O Heaven!

O Lord on High! Whence comes this burning

And suffocating ardour? Whence comes this infernal

And fervent ardour? I will tear my nun’s sackcloth!

I will bury all the Buddhist sutras; I will drown

The wooden fish and leave all the monastic code!

I’ll leave the drums, I’ll leave the bells

And the chants and the yells and all the interminable

And exasperating chatter! I will go downhill

And find me a young and handsome lover—

Let him scold me, beat me, let him kick me

Or ill treat me! I don’t care! I’ll not become a buddha

Or a bodhisattva! I’ll not mumble "mita, metta,

Panjra, para! Mita, metta, panjra, para!" I just cry. . .