Winter's At It's Fag End
Winter is at it's fag end, there is still sadness everywhere, the trees stand naked, dis robed of their leaves and the earth littered with the sadness of yellow leaves.
by Rigzin Namgyal
It's early morning, the horizon is clothed in the garment of white, the first rays of sun pierce the wide blue sky planting kisses on the blushing hilltops, the sky stuffed with white cottoned clouds, drifting lazily on the ether of the azure, a flock of birds racing against the icy winds.
The water pipe runs dry, the landscape is dry and a thick blanket of arid envelopes the whole sky.
And everything is cold and frozen, the countless streams, the rivulets, the water in the bucket, yesterday's left over tea and may be my smile too.
Battling winters the dogs have forgotten how to bark, cuddled in one corner, they beg for the sun to shine as once again they prepare themselves for the cold and gory day.
The teeming coffee shops, the jam packed restaurants, the market bustling with activity, women selling vegetables, the din and the chaos of the market, everything has disappeared, closed shops greet you everywhere, a chilling quiet hounds the atmosphere, a grave silence echoing everywhere.
And it gets dark too soon here and nights are damn long, waiting for dawn is that never ending wait for your lover, the clock ticks lazily and loudly, sounding like the gong of a monastery, shattering the silent vow lady night has taken.
It's around this time the night sky is the clearest, stars sprinkled across the canvas of black, exploding brilliantly into million Roman candles of rich yellow, orange and red, the powerful night sky quietlyadding brushstrokes to a Van Gogh's painting, the moon bathing in milk and ' silence ' polishing the night ring by ring.
Yes! ! winter is at it's fag end here but i always carry a winter in my heart
: This write is about the fag end of winters in Ladakh