I can still hear the rain pattering
on red and green ridged tin rooftops –
against silhouettes of mountainous forests
in varied lush tones of emerald.
Grey clouds are soaring skyward, as fog
steadily descends: between clouds
and fog a magnificent light bursts-
illuminating the land of thunder dragons.
Ink-blue sky peeps intermittently below
the grey clouds right through the splendid light:
Even as rain stops and fog creates a halo over
the stupa’s many tiered golden roofs.
A man or two in tartan brown and black Gho
have descended onto the washed streets,
as a woman in a purple silk Kira walks by my window
cautiously, as do cars ascending a light-swathed valley.
In the distance I see grey peaks, white peaks
that are etched out in thick smog,
as clouds through them hop in and out in turns –
as if characters playing their part for a live audience.
The green wood’s stage irradiated as if by Arclight
is visible in fog, also mud-tracks on hills in the backdrop:
as hearts in ‘the land of happiness’ – Bhutan illumined
by spirituality: are unfazed by anguished deluges.