I prostrate to the lama lords with my body, speech, and mind,
And to the kindest one of all, I pray for refuge.
Please clear away all obstacles and adverse conditions, too,
Please lead me on a path in harmony with Dharma true.

Do you know what people do when they see Milarepa the yogi?
They point their finger and whisper, "Do you think he has gone crazy?"
I wonder myself if I have succumbed to a form of madness,
And if I were to sing of the way I am mad, my song would go like this:

The father's mad and the son is mad—the whole lineage is crazy!
At the top you've got great Dorje Chang—he's a total wacko.
My great-grandpa, Tilo Sher Zang, was a complete loony,
My grandfather, Naro Panchen, had bats in the belfry!
My dear old dad, Marpa Lotsa, was called "el loco gordo,"
And as for me, Milarepa, well I'm just plain insane!

The lineage head, great Dorje Chang, was afflicted by the spirit
Of four kayas spontaneous—that's what wacked him out.

My great-grandpa, Tilo Sher Zang, was plagued by the demon
Of Mahamudra, the Great Seal—it made him go cuckoo.

My grand-pappy, Naro Panchen, started out straight and narrow,
But yogic conduct's naughty ghoul just twisted his mind.

My dear old dad, Marpa Lotsa, met the four tantras' spirits—
They got in his head and danced around, that's how he went insane.

And as for me, Milarepa, why am I a psycho?
The spirits of prana-wind and mind torment me day and night.
I have no bias in my view—that's completely crazy,
With no focus it self-illuminates—that's meditation for nuts.
My conduct that's attachment-free and self-liberated is crazy,
A fruition free of hope and fear is totally insane.
Samaya without hypocrisy is completely crazy,
But not only am I a crazy fool, the demons hurt me too:

The male demons of the lama's advice smack me without mercy,
The female ghosts—the dakinis' blessings—beat me to a pulp,
The boogeyman of happiness has moved in for good,
And realization's demoness is always spying on me.

As if these demons weren't enough, sickness is another problem:
I've got Mahamudra in my back, what a piercing pain.
Dzogchen stabs me from the front, like a blade of hot steel,
And the vase-breath is a chronic pain that never goes away.
From above, original wisdom gives me a scorching fever,
From below, samadhi, cold as ice, makes me shake with chills.
In my middle, great bliss-emptiness is heat and cold at war,
From my mouth I vomit pith instructions like I was puking blood.
My chest has filled up with the fluid of the bliss of Dharmata,
And not only am I sick like this, I'm dying in this way:

In the great expanse of the view, all biases fall dead,
In meditation's vast expanse, dullness, agitation—dead.
In the great expanse of my conduct, hypocrisy keels over
In the fruition's vast expanse, hope and fear are dead.
In samaya's great expanse, sanctimony is a goner,
And finally, in the three kayas, this yogi up and dies.
The morning after the yogi dies, he's not wrapped in some dark cloth,
But in outer appearances' bright and shining shroud.
He's not bound up with plain old twine, but the rope of avadhuti,
No snot-nosed kid carries his corpse—it's his own son, awareness.
He's not dragged down some barren road, but the path to great enlightenment,
And all four classes of dakinis find the place to lay his corpse.

The Kagyü lamas in full force lead the funeral procession,
Not to a towering heap of slate, or a small hill in a meadow,
But to the sacred mountain peak of Shri Samantabhadra.
No ordinary fox or wolf makes a meal of his corpse,
It's method and wisdom's fox and wolf who revel in his flesh.
What remains is buried in the charnel ground of glorious Dorje Chang!

Tibetan page 758. Translated under the guidance of Khenpo Tsultrim Gyamtso Rinpoche by Ari Goldfield, Tenerife, Spain, May 24, 2003. Translation copyright 2012, Ari Goldfield