The sun have set beyond the Himalayas
To rise again from Western seas;
There goes a yogin to the graveyard,
To cut off his clinging tendencies.
He has got his shinbone trumpet,
With deadmen's ash his face is greased.
He will call all hungry spirits
To offer himself as a feast;
They will eat up all his body,
They will drink his blood - and more...
And by morn he's clean and sinless,
Like he never was before.
So, we likewise blow our trumpets,
We've got many trumpeteers,
And we give our kin and children
To those, who killed us all these years;
Ages pass - and they're still hungry,
Could it be our sins're not yet spent?
Oh I wish the sun would rise up
O'er the graveyard of my Motherland...