Amitabh Mitra

we met at a thimphu sunday flea market

there was mist all over

the crowd spoke in gregarious tones

like mountains hunting for lost ones

there was mist on her face

her lips balanced an era

of happening

mist on her kira


somebody whispered

that’s dashoam

our princess

and i remember speaking to her in shameless



woven forests

even in sleep

next to the log fire

i thought i spoke of the earth

beyond the mountains

and chortens

we would leave

having touched once

sundays we met

and parted

buying always laughter

exchanged flavours

when are you going to wear the boku

when would you make me a dasho

she laughed and laughed

a sky just opened up

a mist went thicker

amidst the staring gargoyles of tashikodzong

tired dragon roofs

grunting yaks

nobody saw us embracing

an unsheltered sun.

With the kind permission of the author

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