This is the top of the mountain.
We walked the last kilometer, and there were stairs,
so no alpinist heroics, but the air is thin
enough to make our heads all spin.
We look down on freewheeling falcons
flying far above the terraced slopes.
Wisps of cloud cling to neighbor peaks
like Kalidas's doot, resting weary from his trip,
waiting maybe for another word to bring
the beloved, who wanes within the snowy summits
that trim the not-too-remote horizon.
Devi mantras, dhaks and dhols,
sussurating Sapta-shati, bellows and bells.
I buy my coconut and bring it to you,
Devi Chandravadani.
Pierre and Meena.
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