The Lalla Vakh in the Wind
The river is frozen, the willow is bare,
A scent of old incense remains in the air.
The bells of the temple have fallen to rest,
While a fire is kindled inside of the breast.
For Lalla has wandered the road of the wise,
With the dust of the valley still bright in her eyes.
"I searched for the Master," she whispers in stone,
"But found Him at last in the silence, alone.
The temple is granite, the idol is cold,
But the breath in my body is silver and gold."
Her words are a shadow that dances on walls,
A song that awakens when evening falls.
She walked through the marketplace, naked and free,
A wave that has finally returned to the sea.
The world was a garment she chose to discard,
To find the bright jewel that the heavens had barred.
Now she is the murmur in every dark pine,
The spirit that turns the cold water to wine.
The snow covers footprints, the trail disappears,
But her Vakh is a bridge over hundreds of years.
It travels the mountain, it breathes through the reed,
A harvest of light from a mystical seed.
As night takes the valley in velvet and frost,
She finds what the rest of the world has long lost.
A scent of old incense remains in the air.
The bells of the temple have fallen to rest,
While a fire is kindled inside of the breast.
For Lalla has wandered the road of the wise,
With the dust of the valley still bright in her eyes.
"I searched for the Master," she whispers in stone,
"But found Him at last in the silence, alone.
The temple is granite, the idol is cold,
But the breath in my body is silver and gold."
Her words are a shadow that dances on walls,
A song that awakens when evening falls.
She walked through the marketplace, naked and free,
A wave that has finally returned to the sea.
The world was a garment she chose to discard,
To find the bright jewel that the heavens had barred.
Now she is the murmur in every dark pine,
The spirit that turns the cold water to wine.
The snow covers footprints, the trail disappears,
But her Vakh is a bridge over hundreds of years.
It travels the mountain, it breathes through the reed,
A harvest of light from a mystical seed.
As night takes the valley in velvet and frost,
She finds what the rest of the world has long lost.
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.