Persistence

Munnar and Thekkady

These pictures are from a trip I did back in February. I traveled across the entire district of Idukki in Kerala. I did the beautiful hill station of Munnar, the Eravikulum National Park, the remote villages of Nedumkandam and Ramakalamettu, the Periyar Wildlife Reserve, parts of Thekkady.

It's been a while since I did the trip but surprisingly my memory of the people and places hasn't blurred with time. I still remember the friendly local with the bushy moustache who sat next to me in bus. He didn't speak a word of English but explained everything through sign langauge. I remember the boatride on Periyar river at the crack of dawn. I remember the spicy fish curry I had for lunch and the look on the face of the hapless french lady whom I mistook for the watchman and asked for a matchbox. I remember the mountain goat that stood in front of me and refused to acknowledge my presence and the tea gardens that from a distance look like comfortable green carpets.

I might go back again someday. I have heard the Kurunji, which blooms every 13 years, is a sight to behold.

Persistence

As I chased my shadow in the darkness,
I slipped and fell through the elevator door,
And I have lived here ever since.
Everything stays the same in here,
As we go up and down the tower.
At an arbitrary floor we stop for a while,
To let summer flies inside.
They are welcome to stay,
Hum to the tune of the disenchanted fan,
That breathes out a wind of monotony,
In a black and white persistence.

Beside me is a board of buttons,
Like happy faces that smile at each other.
Each one speaks a different dialect,
Of a foreign language,
But I am sure they say the same thing.
Above the board the speaker coughs and sputters,
The same song over and over again.
Even when I question the speaker I get,
The same words, the same sounds,
Through dayish night or nightish day.

The light shines with a bored brightness,
And if you stare at it for hours,
Shapes lose their shape,
And sizes lose their size.
The floor plunges to an abysmal depth,
And the ceiling jumps to an unimaginable height.
It is then that I hear the knock on the door,
Of the stranger waiting outside.
Within the elevator, I exist,
Locked and trapped in measured space.
He always waits outside.

Fallen

Pondicherry

Pondicherry is a quaint little place with a lot of empty spaces. The roads are like regularly spaced alphabets in a french magazine, with names like Rue Romain Rolland, Rue Labourdonnais. The buildings are like starched white clothes, neatly pressed. The branches of trees are perennially green and laden with flowers. They adorn the houses but are oddly reminiscent of the matted hair of hippies and ascetics alike.

Pondicherry was the home of Late Sri Aurobindo, extremist turned spiritual guru, erudite scholar and an extraordinary gentleman in his own right. Pondicherry was also a french colony and is still home to a lot of French people. It is vibrant with culture, replete with jazz music, good food, wine and a lot of joie de vivre.

The best bit about Pondicherry is that the sea lurks in the background. They haven't got her yet. In the evenings she complains of indigestion but during the mornings she is fine. They think it is the tides. Large stones and boulders keep her tied. At night she is a mad lady who laughs hysterically and her laughter rings through the city. When I was there, I heard her sob silently.

Fallen

Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life.
Ashes are my bodies end. Om.
- Isha Upanishad

Hush, it’s the tentative tiptoe,
On a burning terrace. A sultry surface,
That singes every step into a muffled sigh.
Hop, skip, scuttle but before she leapt.
She stood at the edge and surveyed,
The cloudless sky for a hint of remorse,
A tinge of doubt, ever so slight,
Was there nothing in his eyes?
His head had sagged back like a punching bag,
Wagged like a tail from side to side.
She had watched it, trailed it,
Searched it for a sign.

“I give you these wings, you may fly.”
She spread her wings,
And noticed the world down below.
Those ants that race up and down the anthill,
Nameplates hang from their necks,
Faces are pinned to them and on their shoulders,
They bear a lonely burden.
She squished them too, with her thumb.

The gushing winds said that she had clutched,
At the sky. Her open palms revealed loose strands,
Of hair and a fistful of secrets,
That still clung to her hands and danced midair,
Like marionettes, to a melancholy tune.
She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Time would flow as blood from a wound,
That wouldn’t heal, but the blood had clot,
One day, when the curtains refused to be swayed,
By the plucky breeze at the windowpane.
Since then it hadn’t bled.
The kitchen tap still runs,
The saucepan is on a constant flame,
And the familiar smell still finds its way out,
To the inviting skies. As she fell, she smelt it too,
And rolled in her timeless feathery bed.
The wind was a conch shell to her ears.
He spoke of the patient sea and rows of,
Golden sunflowers and green paddy fields.
She closed her eyes and smiled,
When her fingers brushed the leaves.

She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Mystic Himalayas

The Intractable Yak

At Changu(Tsomgo) Lake, I rode the intractable yak. He was big and bulky. My friends would agree, he was as stubborn as me. When he was pulled to the right, he moved to the left. When he was pulled to the left, he dragged himself and everybody else to the right. At one point of time he almost dropped me into the frozen lake. The other yaks had all reached their destination. But the intractable yak chose to stand his ground, as if he had a point to make. What global cause did he champion, I couldn't quite guess. He merely looked at the Changu lake and shook his horned head. He was rather stylish in his obstinacy. There was something regal about his adornments, his gait, even his hairstyle all gelled up and styled like Elvis perhaps.

But the intractable yak had met his match. If he wouldn't move, neither would I budge from his back. After careful consideration, he came to a decision. He reasoned that he could champion his noble cause after he had dropped me to my destination. So he walked slowly by the lovely Changu Lake and even nodded his head in agreement with whatever I said.

A Prayer

Aditi,
Make the leaves shiver with your breath,
Of cold numbness and frigid solemnity,
Catch the moon undulating in a pool,
Of gentle nuances and half gestures.
Hear the river bubble upon rocks,
And roar in agony at every bend.

I still see you standing there,
Knee deep in water,
Cotton clothes that smell of cotton clothes,
Duly soaked, washed, rinsed, crinkled,
And baked in the sullen, smoky sun.
Still see the fishes around you,
That kiss the watery surface of moss-coated rocks,
And the drowsy, dewy-eyed breeze,
Laden with frangipani, bunches of frangipani,
Carefully woven into necklaces, wreathes and bands,
And recklessly stamped.
Those whorls of hair,
Pleated, permed, frizzed, curled, crumpled, lumped,
Flowing in the wind, for miles and miles,
I felt them last night, while asleep,
Twisted the idle strands of hair,
Around my fingers, and smelt them.
Look they led me here to you.

Aditi, grant me this wish Aditi,
They say your fat fingers,
Can weave a spell around the crescent moon,
Send the clouds into a tizzy,
Bring them crashing into the mountains.
They say your big eyes,
Can see through the night,
And seek out the somnolent sun.
They say you charmed the bees one day,
And turned them into butterflies,
Or was it fireflies?
Aditi, Will you do this for me?
Please listen to me.
The long winding forest path upon the gravelly red soil,
That churns the day into the night.
Lost amidst the similar trees,
May her eyes seek me,
At every corner, at every tree.
Where the silence echoes and the sound is still,
May she hear my voice in the rattling leaves.
The wind gushes in through the windows,
Scrapes the flaky walls of the lonely house,
May she wait for me at the creaky door.

Tide Country

In December, I went on a cruise to the Sunderbans. These are 56 islands of dense mangrove forest. They say it is the largest mangrove forest in the world. Hugli, Sattarmukhi, Bulcherry, Matla and Gusaba are some of the rivers that cradle these islands. Like the eternal mother these rivers give birth to new islands each year and submerge someothers like they had never been.

The river sustains the inhabitants of the islands. Mangroves suck up the salt water, and cover up like a monk's cloak, every available patch of uncovered land. Their roots bind the land together. Under their nurture and care, and the supervision of Bon Bibi(the tribal deity), prosper many species of flora, small animals, even the majestic royal Bengal tiger.

Our boat floated like a debris - we stood out in relief to this place so alive. If our spirits had been mottled by the city's tired breath, here we breathed fresh air, stared up in wonder at the blue sky and looked down every now and then at the glistening river. At night we looked at the sky and wondered if we had ever seen stars before.

Some of these islands are inhabited by humans. One of them is Bhagabatpur. Here we made a brief stop, during high tide. We took in some of their island life to survive in us as memories. They would remind us of life when we are back in the city, encumbered in our quiet, comfortable existence. When the tide began to recede, we went back to out boat and made our way back home.




Tide Country

Mangrove swamps on either side,
Eyelids of your sparkling eyes.
What childish dreams you dream all day.
Earthen houses, earthen pots and pans,
Even your hands are made of clay,
Every day is work and play.

Longish boats on brackish waters,
Are dark silhouettes before the orange sun.
Low tide and high tide,
Moonlight and sunlight,
Are two sides of an uneasy sleeper,
Tossing and turning in bed.

Mud children of the mangrove swamp,
Hide their melting smiles from the sun,
And flap their wings at dusk.
Evenings roar like a beast,
But the night is silent,
Like the ripples of the Ganga.

Hark the sound of the lonely boatman,
Paddle on, paddle on,
Turn every turn of the twisting river.
The mangrove swamp shall follow them,
And open wide her hungry mouth,
To taste the seawater.

To Passion

The knife’s edge looks to belong,
Longs to be a part of you.
Did you know that every glimpse of you,
Draws me closer to my destiny?
Every moment of the way,
From the staircase to the dusty bylane,
Is a splinter.
As you walk up to me,
The knife twirls in my grip,
Why don’t you notice me, even look at me?

Every sunset is a splash of red.
See, this in my hand,
Is a sunset brilliant red.
I have it in my fist,
Turning like the plastic globe,
Hold on to it like a drowning man to his last breath,
This is it, this is it.
This is the color of your lips, the wind against your hair,
This is every throbbing of your heart,
Every gasp of air you breathe,
And this is the clear cloudless sky,
Of your distant, intangible eyes.
See how the knife's blade sways with the wind.
This is it, this is it.

Do you feel it now?
Look at me, does the knife edge,
Seek every drop of your attention?
The faceless people stare blankly at you,
They drift with the wind like sail boats.
This is I. Rooted to this pit.
Recognize me, this is my face,
And this is my poignant gaze.
These are my cruel eyes,
Dark clouds in disguise.
These are my scars screaming, aching,
Every sinew boiling, brimming,
Clutching, Scratching.
Sinking.
I swear by the edge of this knife,
The earth will open up and all its fire,
Will burn you, like it has burnt me,
Hold on to me, this is it,
For you and me.

The Doorbell

Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

-Inferno Canto III


The doorbell rang softly.
Amidst the din of the night,
Half asleep in bed,
I decided it was a dream,
And began to pretend to sleep.
It rang again like an afterthought,
With the dying smoke of a cigarette butt,
And clung to me like a supplicant,
In dire need of help.

At my door was a traveling salesman,
Dressed in a winter fog.
An eager smile buttered his bready face,
And he promptly said “Hello,
The sun won’t rise today.”
I looked beyond him with doubt.
Yes, the sky was blacked out.
“Will it rise tomorrow then?”
He shook his head like a tree,
And with a grave voice he said,
“You haven’t paid your dues.”
This was bad news.
He left me with a leaflet,
And drifted away like a bobbling bottle,
In the middle of a wavy night.

The fluttering leaflet wailed,
An infant unattended in distress,
An inscrutable voice in every page,
That cried, I haven’t paid my dues.
The dues, the dues, the dues.
The futile sound of my views, your views.
The emptiness of a creaky swing,
That moves to and fro.
Swings higher, swings low.
The sun won’t rise today,
Nor tomorrow, nor the day after.
An eternity stares after a traveling salesman.

Stories

The night was silent,
Except for us, who drawn by the light,
Had hissed sotto voce,
Into each other’s ears.

Even the stones have stories,
And the dark alley with stony walls,
Had a silent story to tell,
One that rings a bell.
A story made of awkward pauses,
One pause beside another,
With their arms around each other,
And then a train of thought,
Interjected by a pause,
Then another pause, then another.

A long pause, suitably long,
A lifetime when you close the eyes,
Sepia memories in soft sighs,
A worn out cloth tinged with emptiness,
Loose threads like fingernails,
Held together by human stains.
A long pause, in the corridor.
Hollow voices look around,
One room after another.
Wake up, they are here.
Sprawled sleeper in a somber bed,
Woken up, his eyes red,
Gropes around the forgotten walls.
Don’t touch the wall,
There are pictures on them all.

Time turns around a winding staircase,
As you race upstairs,
Every step disintegrates.

Every step disintegrates.

Plaintive Cries from the Underground

Through a crevice,
In the soil,
Rose a plaintive cry.
Beat it down gently,
And cover it with mud.

Can you hear it still?
Of course you can’t,
It’s that cotton in your ear.
Where’s it coming from,
Haven’t we plugged all the holes?

From the crevices,
For there were more,
Gnarled hands arose.
Take that, take that you,
Clumsy boor.

What seeds have you planted,
Bungling bumpkin,
Look the plants are out,
To get us today,
Not a moment’s delay.

Run as fast,
As your legs can take you,
But the gnarled hands,
Are waving at us,
Clamoring for more.

Trapped underground,
With loose soil,
Our plaintive cries,
Fall on blind ears,
Our gnarled hands behold.

8 Random Things about me... (From How do we know’s blog)

1. Once in a hotel room in Lonavala, a cloud came in through a window and disappeared through another.
2. Where I grew up as a child, we were on the 20th floor and the wall facing the Arabian Sea was made of glass.
3. Sometimes I have dessert before food. Sometimes all I eat is dessert, especially if it’s chocolate icecream.
4. My favorite cartoon strip is Calvin and Hobbes. I also like reading Dilbert, Tintin and Asterix.
5. I check out the art galleries in every city I visit. I love shopping for others. I love trying out different kinds of food.
6. In my ancestral home we had a creeper plant (bottle gourd) that started in our front yard and went all the way up to the rooftop. I fancied climbing down from our first floor balcony using the creeper.
7. Elvis Presley posters are all over my cubicle. I also have a lovely Beatles poster and a Jimi Hendrix Calendar.
8. I can’t wake up in the mornings. I can ignore the loudest alarm clocks. I can sleep through a barking Bruno. Sometimes when I have to see the sunrise, I don’t go to sleep.

I tag anyone who wants to do it!

To Freedom

Sand dunes will forget,
Every transgression of your footstep.
The wind can live without,
The shrill speech of your silent doubt.
The buzzards will look aside,
And leave your corpse to die.

Shards of hope still hang from trees,
These days they smell of futility.
Perhaps your dismal dance of death,
Is better than eternal complicity.
The parched land will darkness await,
As you plunge into the golden sunset.

(Pic from national geographic)

The Blue Blob

When did you become,
A blue little blob in the sky?
Amorphous and rather shapeless,
Like a memory from the distant past.

Unforeseen like a ketchup stain,
So naked and unmitigated,
A mysterious blue blob,
In a blind lane.

That dripping paintbrush,
Drips blue little drops,
Splosh, splosh on my face,
Wash away every trace.

The blue ocean in a bathtub,
With his pretentious waves,
His hands stretched towards,
The blue blob in vain.

Two Poems for an Old Friend

Old Friend

“I didn’t notice you for so long. But I see that you are chasing me like a shadow.”
“Yes, yes.”
“What yes? Why are you following me like that? Go chase somebody else.”
He stopped for a while and looked confused. But then, as though from habit, he started following me again. So I turned around to look him in the eye. He stood still with his head bowed down.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“Why, I am your friend. I am an old friend” he replied.
Why had I never noticed him all this while? But if he says he is an old friend, he must be. Who knows?
“How long do you know me?” I asked him.
“I know you for a long time. I am an old friend”, said he.
“Ok. Then you can follow me, I guess.”

He smiled an eager smile and followed me with a spring in his stride. Indeed he followed me so well that sometimes I didn’t know who was following whom. I wanted to speak to him, but I didn’t know him so well. If he is my old friend, shouldn’t I know him too?
“Do I know you?” I asked him.
“Of course! I am your old friend”
“But I can’t remember you.”
He stopped and scratched his head.
“What an idiot!” I said.

This charade went on for a while. Days dropped like water from a leaky tap. Months gloomily collected days like buckets collect water. By now I have completely forgotten him. Sometimes I turn around and don’t even see him there. But he must be somewhere.
“Where are you?”
Where did he go? I remember him sometimes. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me.
“Are you there, old friend?”


By the Stars

In my balcony, they hung the stars,
It hurt the sky and left some scars,
Then they set me to a side,
By the door, and bid me to abide.
Laws and rules – pay attention,
Yes, you – they should suffice,
And the music of the night,
That is nothing but pretension.

The moment they looked away,
The little rabbit ran astray,
Oh things are what they are,
And when did questions take us far.
So I hung me by the stars,
Twinkled brightly in the night,
When it hurt I smiled,
And with the sky I hid the scars.


Pop Goes the World

So we walked, hand in hand,
You led the way and dragged me on,
In the darkness of the night,
The slippery road is a tough climb.

I don’t know when I lost my strength,
My legs wouldn’t move anymore,
What did you drag me for?
See the trail you left before.

Ofcourse I had to let you go,
You told me I would freeze in snow,
But the sky looks nice and clear,
Did you ever try lying here?

When you stick your tongue out,
The snow goes pop like the world.
A million faces in the sky,
Are all amused, see how they smile.

(Picture - Seated Faune, Picasso)

Wine

“What’s wrong with you, why are you laughing so much?” she said.
“I have noooo idea!” he laughed some more.
“It’s the wine I am sure.”
“It’s not the wine, it’s the vine!”
“Vine?”
“Yeah! Where do you think the wine came from?” he laughed uncontrollably.
“Please stop your stupid jokes!”
“Now listen to this one. This is my favorite song. Elvis Presley. May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he said with mock entreaty in his voice.
She gave him her hand, and he did an exaggerated bow!
“Is it too loud? The neighbors …”, she said.
But he held her hand and they started dancing.
“Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s trueeee”, he copied Elvis.
“Ha Ha! What’s wrong with you?” she laughed.
“Nothing!” he said.
“What are you doing? Leave me!” she wrenched herself loose. Then she smiled awkwardly.
“Why should we be apart? Really love you baby, cross my heart!” he sang to her.
“Somebody is singing tonight!” she said. She moved away and checked her cell phone.
“Oh! So how’s he?”
“Fine!” she looked away.
“Like vine?” he asked.
She laughed.
“Such a lovely night. Man, I really love Elvis Presley!” he said to her. He went to the washroom and washed his face. He looked at the mirror and saw his face, denuded, like desert land. He practiced his smile but the mirror ignored that. So he washed it some more. Yet the smile seemed out of place. This time he couldn’t stop his tears as he stared at the face.
“Like wine”, he said wistfully as he stared at his red eyes.
“What did you say? By the way what are we doing for dinner? You know, I have to leave early”, she said from the drawing room.

He buried his face in a towel and wiped hard till his face peeled off and floated down like a leaf, slowly to the floor. This time he didn't look at the mirror.
“You know what, lets go dancing tonight!” he said cheerfully and began to laugh.

All the perfumes of Arabia

"Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?"
-Macbeth

As a kid, I may have starred as a flower or a tree on stage, and captivated the audience by the originality of my expression. I vaguely remember such appearances. I must have been ten when I got my first starring role. It was that of Georgie Porgie (you can imagine what I was supposed to do on stage!) My performance got some critical acclaim. They said I was a natural in that role. I was so good that one of the girls on stage actually cried even before I had kissed her. I kissed her all the same - I was a true professional even in my early days. Offers poured in after that and I had a hard time refusing people. After much dithering, I accepted the role of a coughing boy and starred in a one-act play. The critics panned the play but appreciated my sterling performance. No one has ever coughed better on stage, they wrote. The expression on my face was enough to bring the audience to tears. One of the ladies even came up on stage. She had to be reassured, "Madam, he is only acting!"

There ensued a string of stellar performances. Most notably that of a mad jailer. I executed one prisoner after another with startling conviction. The performance was terrifying. The audience was so terrified that most of them left in the first half hour. Later, I even got a letter from the prison authorities. I think they were offering me a job, but I am not so sure of that.

Currently I am rehearsing for a play that could be termed as 'the turning point' of my career. The role is that of a mad doctor. When the director described it to me she said it was the role of a doctor. These days she refers to it as the role of the mad doctor, I am not sure why. Need less to say, it is a pivotal role. The role requires great emotional variety, though all I do is laugh throughout my performance. It is not easy to express sadness, anger and the entire range of emotions through laughter, but I think I can pull it off.

The director is very impressed with me so far. I have even assured her that the critics have always liked my performances even if the audience couldn't understand it. Funny, how nobody ever asked me who my critics are. Besides why should they, since they know I am my greatest critic. The director is so happy with me that she has promised me a one-way ticket to somewhere. By the way she winks at me, I am sure she is talking of Broadway.

My Mother

I'd like to write about the solitary lamppost and the melancholy night. Or muddy puddles and the orphan child. But I didn’t ever tell you about my mother. For it's so hard to talk about her. It’s not that her hair is on fire. Nor is she the definition of motherhood. There are even times that I hate her. She has her flaws, and sometimes that is all I see in her. Othertimes I see them not. My mother would have her qualities, and I would freely write about her, if only I could see her qualities for what they are. I am just glad she is always there.



(My Mom's on the right)

A Pebble in the Beach

Waves of emotion undulate,
Hold hands and together,
Splash,
On the stony face of an ancient land.

A little pebble on the rocky beach,
Like an old missive, a torn page,
Has some scribbled words, hardly legible.

The sun bleeds on the liquid sea,
Dissolves itself in a cup of tea.
The rising tide will set aside,
Little pebbles, and petty memories.

Travelogue - Tsomo Riri

The soldiers stared at us with their sunburnt faces. They were surprised to see us there - Karzok 15075 ft. A little village by the Tsomo Riri lake. It was twilight and the Lama was in a hurry. This little village has no electricity. No roads and no phone lines too. One of the soldiers said, "The Gompa is closing, go in." I thanked him and went in.

In the darkness inside, we made out the shapes of idols. The door shone brightly with the light outside. The Lama moved deftly between the shapes. To my questions, he smiled his practiced smile. Ofcourse we had no idea what was inside until the flash of my camera revealed all in a trice. Rows of idols all gloriously decorated. And the interiors so old and grand.

Outside, the sun set upon an enchanting lake. Hills looked upon it, mesmerized, and the gusty wind threatened to blow us away. Green pastures of grass on which grazed horses. A brown house in the middle of nowhere. We stayed the night. Next morning after the orange sunrise, we cut across the mountain and made our own roads.

Tsomo Riri

Her voice rings through,
The cinnamon hills,
Baked brown in a bright sun.
Hers, is a voice that brims over,
The rippled waves,
And gushes through,
The jagged cliffs,
Into an ancient edifice,
Where a lone bell sings,
Of an ancient man,
And his whispered words.

Happy men with burnt faces,
Build hopeful roads,
That stand for a while,
And are washed away,
By brooks of muddy water.
In the distance,
Her voice still rings,
And the bell still sings,
And the sun-baked hills,
Still stare lovingly,
At her rippled waves.

Travelogue - The Gompas of Leh

Hemis -
Hemis is among the oldest gompas in the region - dates back to 1630 AD and is built on the site of a 12th century cave monastary. When I was there, they were celebrating the Hemis Festival. Like most Gompas, it's on top of a hill. Outside is a big courtyard which is where the festivities take place. Inside is a 17th century heritage frozen in time. Cramped in the small space are monks and commoners alike. Golden statues and old cloth paintings stare at them.



Thiksey -
The most beautiful of all monastaries. Little cubes stacked up, taper heavenwards. From atop the monastary behold a barren desert-land, and patches of green. In their midst hides the city of Leh.



Shey Palace -
The old palace of the kings of Ladakh. It looks good from the outside. But the insides are eaten up by a parasite called time. The Gompa here, is a simple one. If you can brave the heat, the scorching sun and the unsteady steps, climb up to the top of the structure - Shey offers you a view, you won't forget.



Stok -
The new palace. And a little a museum that adjoins this palace. Couldn't get a glimpse of the queen.



Shanti Stupa -
A gift from the Japanese. It is the highest point in the city and you can spend hours out here, staring at the cityscape.



Spituk -
A buddhist monastary like any other. Except the Hindus believe, that the deity is Goddess Kali. A rich Hindu patronage has had even the Buddhist Lamas encourage this belief. The 'Kali' temple, is on a hill above the traditional Gompa - looks great at sunset.


The Lonely Flame

The wind sneaks in,
Through the yawning door,
To tease a lonely flame.
In the eternal night of this place,
Red monks chant prayers,
In an earthy voice.

The trembling shadow of a hand,
Rings a bell,
In the mind of the transfixed listener.
All sounds will die within.

Yet, somehow, through the sleepy gate escapes,
The musty smell of hope,
Soft sighs of tranquility,
And the simple smile of a face,
Made alive by a timeless, flickering flame.