By
Deeya Bhattacharya
At the Namgyal Monastery
At those shimmering heights
fantasy gropes about in silver hairs
weaving cobwebs of senility
At those great heights
where monasteries are
the spell and fumes of ecstasy
run havoc-
the thin air among serrated clouds
speak of sublimity
Through the skimmed rays of light
and the frail sun
the sonorous gong of the dung-chen
and gya-ling
the agony keeps pace
the wrath of a beast
sleepy among mountain lairs
fast asleep among the snow
and its height of innocence
to awake to the rituals of a mountain god
bellowing furious
Its when the avalanches happen……
Wounds of silence
Desires hold me prisoners
scaling walls of atrocities
tendrils of silence
cloaks me
in this vivacious sun
I stand upon the bend in Chandrabhaga
Rivers dry up
in the scorching sun
as this
and often
a sickle shaped back
fits into a collage of silence-
probably a human form
His back against the sun
his iridescent hairs floating
as in a mirage
he stands
The silence that emanates
grows loud each time
the sea meets the river
in a rhythmic chant to
bare its womb
The palm fronds that surrounds
this golden land are a
promise a treat
a silence
in the canvass a river dries up
only to grow luscious in rain.
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