Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Grasses are dry and the pines too,
Roads are dusty  and fields lay empty.
Icy winds from the far away plateau of Tibet,
Compromise even those tall wreathing mountains,
And seek shelter in our  small splendid valley,
Which lies in  the west of Bhutan.

The frozen wind numbs my leg  and,
Burns my chin , cuts my bone in shin and
Makes me cry like a baby in pain.
On the ground the dew sparkles,
Few sparrows hover in the sky,
Whilst he collect the straws to nest his darling,
It heralds that winter is swirling.

People walk in their warmest clothes.
Kiddos wear their thickest  gloves ,
The boots, the hats, the socks and everything,
Are thick ,fury and fancy too.

Whilst inside the house,
Families congregate near the earthen hearth,
Embracing every warmth of the dying ember.
The  grandma cease her routine prayers,
And lull her grandchildren to solace of slumber.
Meanwhile father sips a premium local brew,
Mother as well join the toast .
Conversation last to the wee hours,
Until there comes a knock at the door,
Father smiles and head to answer the  door,
He unhook the bolts and welcome the stranger,
There he stands a man with smiles,
He wears a white shirt with words across.
i saw as he sit opposite to me,
on his shirt is the word ." gross national happiness."