Markha, great mother of nature,

you inspired awe from the first gaze

drawn by your steep valley walls.

Painted by autumn in colours warm,

your branches blushed burgundy

between burnt-ochre groves -

a final ode to a summer flown

as snow crowned your peaks.

Tracing the textures of your river,

I drank humbly below giants stood tall,

and you flowed through me -

becoming my very vitality.

You are life,

embracing with a presence so pure

that in my solitude,

I was never alone.

In the shadow of a cliffside monastery

I admired your ancient slabs all around -

infinite, eternal, and unmoving,

yet moving me

until I wept freely at their beauty

while wind wiped tears of knowing -

that you always were,

and always will be.

Markha, despite such grandeur you are not loud.

Far from it, you speak in silence,

and as I slowed to stillness

I heard your wisdom whispered on the wind -

that there is no ‘you’

nor is there ‘I’

only ‘we’

only One.

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