Yak and horsemen swaddled tight
in furs and fleece, trudge and toil,
ascending skyward heavily laden.
The spirit of the journey.
Footsteps ring on polished ice
like cymbals played in anger.
Hooves and boots play diff’rent notes.
The rhythm of the journey.
Where snow lays still virginal,
beauty locked in each crystal,
soon trodden down and sullied.
The footholds of the journey.
Shambhala glistens with ice,
stately, regal, sits on high.
Every heartbeat striding near
the ending of the journey.
© Ruth Raymer 2011
This was composed whilst listening to a piece of music which consisted mostly of the sound of Tibetan Bells – similar to that in the YouTube video attached to this post.