The sun set behind the Himalayas, In order to rise again the next day, The initiate raves in the cemetery To sever affections. He has a pipe of bone, He'll begin to blow on it; He'll call together the starving spirits, To give them food and drink. They'll eat his body, They'll drink his blood until the day; And till morning he is sinless-pure, Not tethered to fucking anything. Oh, we also are blowing our horns, We have a lot of little pipes; And we drink our blood, The blood of satiated boors, scum. So many years—and so little for them. Really, are we so much to blame? Oh, let the sun rise quickly Above the cemetery of my motherland…