The Last Train to Nepal

by Ouyang Hongsheng

Morning fog rises above

the river valley.

Sun turns the sacred mountain

to golden fire.

We wake in the gaze of the gods:

Chomolungma, 

mother goddess of the earth -

we rise humbly, that we

not provoke her ire..

With all my big and little sisters,

I chant, I bow, I pray.

Then, wrinkled, smiling Aama beckons:

it is time to toss and sift the grain

for the first meal

of the day.

The yak bells tinkle as the herdsmen

slowly move the beasts along.

All life is joining in

to sing this simple

morning song.

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Prayer flags flutter everywhere,

carrying  modest human dreams 

to the heavens

which, in this place,

is much closer

than it seems..

The wisdom eye watches

benevolently,

with kindness,

over all.

I awaken as I'm catching

the last train 

to Nepal.

I am reading a wonderful book right now, The Violet Shyness of Their Eyes, by Barbara Scot, who spent six months living in Pokhara. Each night I am transported to a peaceful, simple world. It wafts through my dreams so beautifully that I resist awakening.