Luxurious shades flap in the breeze,
Straining to fly free.
Strung between peaks,
Floating amongst hovels.
Infinite prayers,
Straining in the breeze.
Bright sun shines down upon
An expansive field.
White-washed stones,
Much more to those
Who gently placed them there.
A field of most holy stupas.
Soaring, white tipped mountains off afar.
I sit on a dead brown peak:
Below me: life,
Given by a river.
A green valley,
Surrounded by dead stone.
Monks in saffron robes
Chanting, drumming.
Bright incense burns,
Bringing spicy scents
Wafting up
Through the thin, dry air.
Walls adorned
By terrible images
Demons? No, they say.
Protectors of humanity,
Chasing evil away
From this high, dry land.
In the centre, seated.
A gilded statue,
Once a man. Now,
Resplendent in Nirvana
I wrote this poem a while back while sitting on a peak in Ladakh (The majority-Buddhist part of Jammu & Kashmir, in northern India)
