Morning to afternoon

From a hotel window
without a view
in dusty, dirty Katmandu

Above the rooftop's
curried breeze
Prayer flags hang in
faded symmetries.

Despite the pigeon shit
turned to grime
And certain words
trapped in rhyme,

Spirits find a way to rise
above the Buddhas,
above the skies.

From a hotel window
Without a view
In dusty, dirty
Katmandu

Treading on a rock path
I have not much to say.
That these children want
to hold my hand
is enough.

Letting words
age in cautious steps
is enough.