HOWARD McCORD: POETRY & PROSE
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POETRY | POEM 16 |
Kathmandu Valley: A Hillside
 

Tibet is fifty miles away
and the requiem of all that is fugitive
is the low and moaning cry of the wind.
The mountains here break out toward the sky
in a spasm of rock and snow
and hungry villages. Below,
a white stupa covers a relic of Buddha
like cupped hands
and I am very close to walking to Tibet.

It is moving into a falcon’s eyes
and brain here on the hillside,
a funny pilgrim rocking on his heels
talking to a brown child
in some tree language of gesture
while out beyond our faces are the Himalayas
and fifty miles away
my cinnamon Tibet.