Post by goldenmyst on Apr 6, 2023 20:39:21 GMT -6
Beautiful Oriental Journey of Life - Rewrite
Future life of our reborn spirits
Headed to the forbidden city
Where dreams soar like dragons
On wings of saffron visions
Born of conch echoes
Whose echo sings of ancient sutras
Flying on prayer wheels in the sky
As our hearts meet on a golden hearth
Where snowy leopards
Lay down with yaks
In peaceful pastures
My wife was still very much alive
and we were taking the train
from central China to Lhasa.
Long-haired Tibetans
in woolen shirts
dyed sky blue
and haloed in ancient sunbeams
cast through the crystal windows
from the mandala sun
sat across from us.
Their English syllables
Rolled like a mountain stream
In their lament of forgotten ancestors
Whose souls were lost
In salty pools scattered like stardust
Where caravans once gathered Tara’s tears
We disembarked the train
and looked beyond Lhasa
across the Himalayas
lit by sunlight through the clouds.
Our self-guided tour of the dimly lit rooms
Of the Potala Palace.
Took us where the Dalai Lama lived as a boy
and the ones who came before him.
Until the chants of ghosts
Gathered in cubbyholes where dust motes rose
And tears traced my beloved’s face
Like Brahmaputra tributaries
Flowing between heaven and earth
She dips her pail in the source
Where water from melted snow
Flows by our yurt
Into a cloud mirror lake
Where our Dharma dreams
Are light poured like lemongrass tea
From the porcelain cup of sky
Future life of our reborn spirits
Headed to the forbidden city
Where dreams soar like dragons
On wings of saffron visions
Born of conch echoes
Whose echo sings of ancient sutras
Flying on prayer wheels in the sky
As our hearts meet on a golden hearth
Where snowy leopards
Lay down with yaks
In peaceful pastures
My wife was still very much alive
and we were taking the train
from central China to Lhasa.
Long-haired Tibetans
in woolen shirts
dyed sky blue
and haloed in ancient sunbeams
cast through the crystal windows
from the mandala sun
sat across from us.
Their English syllables
Rolled like a mountain stream
In their lament of forgotten ancestors
Whose souls were lost
In salty pools scattered like stardust
Where caravans once gathered Tara’s tears
We disembarked the train
and looked beyond Lhasa
across the Himalayas
lit by sunlight through the clouds.
Our self-guided tour of the dimly lit rooms
Of the Potala Palace.
Took us where the Dalai Lama lived as a boy
and the ones who came before him.
Until the chants of ghosts
Gathered in cubbyholes where dust motes rose
And tears traced my beloved’s face
Like Brahmaputra tributaries
Flowing between heaven and earth
She dips her pail in the source
Where water from melted snow
Flows by our yurt
Into a cloud mirror lake
Where our Dharma dreams
Are light poured like lemongrass tea
From the porcelain cup of sky
Enjoy your time together when you visit each other. She is always with you.
