Time rather crawls among these quiet hills.
Perhaps when he strolled along harvested fields
He was struck by the majesty of green rising peaks
That mock our flux with most ancient calm
And lost track of ways he had mapped.
Or perhaps gazing on snow-mountain caps
That hung atop valleys as wizened old sages
He had puzzled himself with their foreign lore
And therein was caught again late.
It even could have been the full blooming rose,
Or many other petals of captivating colours
That brighten these greens with fragrance and charm
And halt a man sharp in his tracks.
Even at night, when in cold-chilling dark
The wonders of day are quietly asleep,
The twinkles of lights from faraway folds
Meshed with the fabric of star-sprinkled sky
Arrest our gaze as magnets on top
And stall our progress too long.
Or may be just brushed by the buffets of wind
He stood with his curls or tall-tousled hair
And breathed in the whispers of God.
Time rather crawls among these quiet hills,
Here in the land of Buddha and his peace.