Himalayas


There is a world out there of which I know little
And had I not seen colour photographs of it
I would know even less or maybe somewhat more
Of what's before me but not the Himalayas,
The mountain range that did not hinder the goodness
Of Lord Buddha spreading from India to Tibet.

When the messengers saw the peaks covered with snow
They could have turned and climbed down to safety and warmth
But Shangri La beckoned every hesistant step
And the once stooping goats looked up as if bemused
By the spectacle of the human condition
Saving itself from its own despondent projects.

Too cold for germs and worms, they survived on pork fat
And slept inside their fireside dreams of plump women.
Everyday their skins turned pale and their eyes narrowed
And each month one quota of their nine lives expired.
The parade of indolent deities grimly heard
The gates of Lhasa creak in anticipation.

Sir Edmund knew Prince Siddharta had got there first
Then the ancient world became dots of printed words.
Temples with high altar stones will be built no more
Save for the vestibules of quieter confessions
And the sublime terror of the huge unknown beast
Will in time shrink from being into nothingness.
 
 

Bevagna 4 6 2011