The Ghost of the Grey Crags
Above the tree-line, where the oxygen is thin,
A shadow moves beneath a silver, spotted skin.
No stone is displaced by the weight of his tread,
A phantom of frost where the living feel dread.
The moon casts a fever, a pale, eerie glow,
Reflecting a light that is birthed by the snow.
It glitters like diamonds, yet feels like a shroud,
As the leopard descends from a kingdom of cloud.
His footprints are hollows, a vanishing trace,
A map of a spirit in this desolate place.
He walks through the silence that follows a roar,
A king with no crown and a world with no door.
Then comes the wind with a long, lonely howl,
The music of mountains where the mysteries prowl.
But the leopard has vanished, a trick of the sight,
Leaving only the cold and the blue, haunted light.
A shadow moves beneath a silver, spotted skin.
No stone is displaced by the weight of his tread,
A phantom of frost where the living feel dread.
The moon casts a fever, a pale, eerie glow,
Reflecting a light that is birthed by the snow.
It glitters like diamonds, yet feels like a shroud,
As the leopard descends from a kingdom of cloud.
His footprints are hollows, a vanishing trace,
A map of a spirit in this desolate place.
He walks through the silence that follows a roar,
A king with no crown and a world with no door.
Then comes the wind with a long, lonely howl,
The music of mountains where the mysteries prowl.
But the leopard has vanished, a trick of the sight,
Leaving only the cold and the blue, haunted light.
Harrison Cashmere is a poet and writer from the heart of Kashmir. His work explores the delicate intersection of human introspection and the fleeting beauty of the natural world. Deeply rooted in the atmosphere of the valley, his poetry seeks to ground philosophical ideas in the lived, sensory details of his homeland.