Pablo Cuzco is one of my hands-down favorite poets. His image-laden haiku rouses a sense of nostalgia and adventure, but when one scratches the surface of his verse, he or she may find themselves in an entirely different space than they thought they were. I really can’t do it justice; just read for yourself: https://pcuzco.wordpress.com/. In response to Challenge The Curmudgeon, Pablo tendered several very interesting topics, each of which I will write about in the near future. For now, in response to his suggestion “How about something relating to Tibet?”, I’m re-posting a short story where half of the action takes place in the World’s Rooftop. This doesn’t count as an acceptance of a challenge, since it’s a preexisting piece, but I’ll get to Pablo’s real challenges later. Hope you enjoy this.
From Lhasa, the deep lowing of the dungchens roused Tenzin Gampo Norbu from his slumber in an antechamber of Shechen Monastery. The old monk struggled to his feet, grabbed his saffron robe from a hook on the wall, and moved silently down the corridor towards the shrine for his morning meditation. As he approached the ornate altar and settled somewhat painfully into the lotus position, he chuckled to himself that once again he was the first to arrive for sunrise devotions, the new batch of novice monks under his tutelage not accustomed to waking at this hour. He would give them a few more days before donning a disciplinarian persona.
The lama placed his palms together and began intoning mantras. “Om gate gate paragate parasamgate Bodhi svaha…Om gate gate paragate parasamgate Bodhi svaha…Om gate –“
Suddenly, the monk’s meditative state was broken with a start as his mind processed what…
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