Not all deserts are sand-rippling dunes,
Extending to cloudless horizon, lost
Regions where nomadic wanderers
Mingled alongside snowy summits.
Where is this other desolate world?
Here, on high plateau moraine, I rise
Amongst clouds, neither inside nor
Outside the world, existence undeniable:
Ancient, ice-crushed, rocky rubble
Strewn beneath my feet.
Over chilly summers, wind-fluttering
Prayer flags I extended from boulder tops.
May I be more than mere visitor to this
Moraine, that it will become part of me.
This I sang aloud to heavenly heights.
Thanks for reading this Tenzing poem.