Mustang

In the same way in which a wild western mustang flees
At the scent of a man,
So we bolt out of this life when we die.
Crazed in our release from physical form,
Our karmic winds blow us forward
In directions we cannot control.
There is the bad we must face
And the pains we cannot escape.

However, by saying Amitabha’s name during our life,
We run straight into his arms at our death.
We need not suffer further bitter fates,
For the Pure Land will be our next home.