Burnt orange is slowly changing into a dazzling white while I remain hidden mesmerized in the dark shade that the Himalayas offer me. Tourists abound here, clicking and letting out soft sound of wonderment. I am not a tourist now. I am a pilgrim. The Indians, the Hindus mainly have tendencies to build temples and worship in such lofty places and pilgrims flow like the Ganges or the Alakananda towards them.
Before visiting the temple I also let out my soft prayer to the Almighty to let the mountain survive, thrive with the flora and fauna that it used to have those days when pilgrims trudged miles after miles without the least care for their comfort, risking their life and were blessed by the generosity of the Himalayas for you don’t know when suddenly a pristine fountain would pop up and quench your thirst and fruit laden trees would feed you so that your dry food stock would not exhaust fast. I also prayed that it might be saved from unscrupulous visitors making it a perfect litter bin. But who is listening?
A yellow beaked crow
Takes lone flight to winter sky
Like a pilgrim’s sigh
Posted for Haibun Monday – Free For All @ dVerse hosted by Hayesspencer
Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United