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Standing Still (Dedicated to the divine land of Ladakh, India)

Standing still in this land I wonder,
wonder if time trickles through its sieve.
Chilling winds gush from hills yonder,
I wonder if they hear me heave.

I heave for the river that streams,
I wonder if it could just trickle,
trickle ever so slowly and stand still,
stand still with me, in this land arcane.

I envy the little pebbles that revolt,
revolt against the mighty stream's run.
I wonder if their resolve is borrowed,
borrowed from the mountain's gentle tremble
(as much as it may tremble, it stands still.)

The purpureal hills crowned with divine dust,
seamlessly strung to the heavens above,
treaded by monks and shepherds august,
who spin their wheels and lead their herds.
Wheels of dharma spun with wisdom and love,
wheels of patience and the wheels of trust.

Columns of pebbles and heaps of stones -
like scattered epitaphs they remind,
of man's restlessness to leave his marks behind.

As I prescind from this land sublime,
the distant gongs play a peaceful hymn.
A hymn of delight, a hymn of lament,
a lament of losing its weary guests,
a delight of reclaiming its lost solace.

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