I prostrate to the lords, the mighty lamas,
And especially I pray to the kindest one for refuge.

When you look at me, you see a do-nothing fool,
But in fact I am so busy, and now I’ll tell you how.

In unborn reality, free from all extremes,
Is the land where meditation is the house that I’m building.
I’m not building a house made of bricks, because I don’t have the time for that.  

Dharmata’s emptiness is the northern plain
Where I’m taming the rough earth of the disturbing states of mind.
You won’t catch me working my daddy’s farm, because I don’t have the time for that.

Inexpressible nonduality
Is the frontier where I’m taming the enemy of ego-clinging.
I’m not fighting outer enemies, because I don’t have the time for that.  

My mind’s native state free of perceiver and perceived,
Is the palace where I invite my bride of practice.
I’m not taking an ordinary wife, because I don’t have the time for that.
 
In my own body, the mandala of victorious ones,
I’m rearing my dear son, awareness-wisdom.
I’m not wiping some little kid’s runny nose, because I don’t have the time for that.  

Behind the wall of my breastbone is my treasure chest,
And listening and reflecting are the jewels I gather there.
I’m not chasing after material wealth, because I don’t have the time for that.  

The unchanging Dharmakaya is the great mountain
Where I’m breaking in the wild horse of self-awareness.
You won’t catch me herding yaks and sheep, because I don’t have the time for that.  

My own flesh and bones are the clay I use to make
The stupa of spontaneous presence.
You won’t catch me making tsa-tsa molds, because I don’t have the time for that.  

My heart’s a three-sided vessel, blazing with the light
Of luminous clarity, the flame I offer continually.
So I don’t offer any butter lamps, because I don’t have the time for that.  

In bliss-emptiness, my shrine hall,
To equipoise’s tangkas and rupas,
The mind’s unchanging nature is the feast that I offer.
So I don’t make outer offerings, because I don’t have the time for that.  

Native mind so pure is the paper where I write
The letters of the freedom from attachment.
So I don’t write ordinary notes, because I don’t have the time for that.

Into the skull-cup of emptiness
I pour the poisons three and the poisons five.
I’m not doing black magic or voodoo rites, because I don’t have the time for that.  

Out on the borderline where love’s anguish meets my mind,
I’m caring for my kin, all six kinds of sentient beings.
I’m not just caring for my own family, because I don’t have the time for that.  

The instructions I’ve received from the lamas, my fathers
I put in my mindstream, I put into practice.
I don’t do like most others do, because I don’t have the time for that.  

In a secluded place, I practice to attain
The greatest, highest aim—perfect enlightenment.
I don’t sleep in the darkness of ignorance, because I don’t have the time for that.  |

My mouth is a conch shell, ringing out the melody
Of pith instruction taught in beautiful song
I don’t sit around talking blah, blah, blah, because I don’t have the time for that.  

Tibetan pages 690-1. Under the guidance of Khenpo Tsultrim Gyamtso Rinpoche, translated by Ari Goldfield, April 21, 2003, Tekchen Kyetsal, Spain. Translation copyright 2012, Ari Goldfield.