Whispers of the Wind
The wind carves stories into the cliffs,
Silent hymns in the language of stone.
A prayer in motion, a dance unseen,
Where echoes of eternity roam.
The ridges sigh in quiet tongues,
Breathing in the sky’s embrace.
Time is dust upon their lips,
A kiss that leaves no trace.
River of Time
The Indus murmurs in silver sighs,
Flowing through the ribs of the earth,
A thread unraveling, a story untold,
Where past and present give birth.
Once it carried the weight of kings,
Now it sings to the lonely stones.
Ghosts of horsemen ride its waves,
In whispers soft as bones.
Mountains Like Guardians
Sentinels of the sun, cloaked in white,
Watching the hush of the cold blue night.
They whisper secrets in tongues of old,
Mountains of fire, frozen in gold.
The sky is a canvas where shadows stretch,
Brushed by the hands of gods unseen.
These walls of silence, these peaks of stone,
Stand where time has never been.
A Sky of Mirrors
The lakes wear the heavens like silk,
Mirrors cradling the endless light.
The sky leans down to kiss their glass,
A quiet embrace, calm and bright.
Blue dissolves in pools of gold,
Stars shiver upon their skin.
The moon hums low in silver tones,
A lullaby woven within.
Nomad’s Footsteps
Footprints vanish, but stories remain,
Written in dust, sung by the plain.
The road is a river, the past a tide,
Carrying whispers of those who ride.
Where they go, the wind does not ask,
Nor does the sky keep them still.
The earth is a book of shifting sand,
And they are the words it spills.
The Breath of Ladakh
The air is thinner, yet heavy with dreams,
In the hush of Ladakh’s embrace.
Each gust carries a piece of the past,
Each shadow, a traveler’s trace.
The prayer wheels turn in the hands of time,
Sending murmurs to mountains above.
The cliffs and the skies are silent scribes,
Etching their stories with love.
The Sun Rests on the Rooftop of the World
The sun rests its head upon the peaks,
Like an ember caught in stone.
The valleys stretch, in golden sleep,
And the sky is left alone.
It dips behind the ridges tall,
A painter’s brush in flame.
Night arrives on silent feet,
But the mountains stay the same.
Frozen Echoes
Winter drapes the land in whispers,
A hush upon the spine of the earth.
The rivers sigh beneath their ice,
A song of frozen birth.
The stars burn brighter in the cold,
Scattered like dust on velvet skies.
Each breath is a ghost, fading slow,
Between the dawn’s pale rise.
Moon Over Pangong
The moon unravels, thread by thread,
Spilled across the waiting lake.
It dances with the moving tide,
A silver dream that does not wake.
The water holds its breath in awe,
Reflecting heaven’s quiet light.
Here, between the sky and stone,
The world dissolves into the night.
Silent Monasteries
Whitewashed walls hold the weight of prayers,
Each whisper carved in stone.
The monks weave chants into the wind,
Where the echoes are never alone.
Time drifts slow through wooden halls,
Where incense curls like mist.
Gold-clad deities watch with grace,
As the world turns, then is kissed.
The Road to Nowhere
A ribbon of dust and silent stones,
Winding through a barren land.
The road is not a path to home,
But a call to those who understand.
Each turn reveals a painted sky,
Each bend a tale untold.
The road to nowhere leads within,
Where the heart turns dust to gold.
Chadar: The Frozen River
A mirror of ice beneath weary feet,
A river asleep in the hush of night.
Step by step, the journey unfolds,
Where silence sways in frozen light.
The cliffs stand tall in quiet guard,
Snow-laced hands in pale embrace.
Here, between the earth and sky,
The soul moves slow in time’s own trace.
The Desert That Dreams
Nubra sighs in dunes of gold,
A river’s whisper in the sand.
The wind paints patterns no hands can hold,
Dreams that slip through time’s own hand.
The camels walk with measured grace,
Their shadows long upon the plain.
As if they know the desert sleeps,
And waits for footsteps once again.
Stars Over Ladakh
The sky is a book of burning ink,
Pages turned by the hush of night.
Each star a thought, each light a word,
Stories written in quiet flight.
The mountains listen, the rivers wait,
As constellations start to weave.
They whisper names the world forgot,
And secrets only silence believes.
The Dance of Prayer Flags
They dance upon the mountain’s breath,
Colors fluttering in whispered song.
Each thread a wish, each wave a hymn,
To lands where lost souls belong.
They fade beneath the winter’s touch,
Yet never truly die.
The wind carries their broken words,
And prayers become the sky.
The Forgotten Fort
Walls of stone, asleep in time,
Cradling echoes of battles past.
A fortress built to guard the sky,
Now claimed by silence vast.
The wind still walks these hollow halls,
Its fingers tracing dust and dreams.
The past is carved into the rock,
Yet nothing is as it seems.
Winter’s Breath
The frost etches lace on windowpanes,
Carving art upon the glass.
The valley sighs beneath its weight,
As the seasons come and pass.
The rivers whisper through their sleep,
The peaks stand wrapped in white.
The world is hushed beneath the cold,
Yet glows in winter’s light.
The Horizon That Calls
The horizon is a beckoning hand,
Where the sky kneels to touch the land.
The road runs onward, never still,
And hearts obey its silent will.
Each mountain hums, each valley sings,
A melody of whispered things.
Those who listen, those who roam,
Find in Ladakh a second home.
Echoes of the Himalayas
The mountains hum in a voice so low,
A song carved deep in the veins of stone.
Their silence speaks in shadows cast,
A language only the wind has known.
They rise like gods from time’s embrace,
Guardians of the endless blue.
They wait, unmoved, yet always near,
As if they whisper, just for you.
The Forgotten Path
A trail of dust, a thread of light,
Woven through the hills so high.
Steps dissolve but footprints stay,
In whispers of the earth and sky.
Who has walked this path before?
Who will follow once again?
The road remembers every soul,
And calls them softly, like the rain.
Beneath the Monk’s Lantern
A candle flickers in the dark,
A glow upon the temple’s hand.
The monk bows low, his whispers rise,
A prayer that only stars understand.
Night bends close to hear his song,
The wind leans in, the silence stays.
A lantern swings, a bell resounds,
And dawn awakes in golden rays.
The Sky’s Reflection
Pangong Lake, a silver dream,
A mirror held to touch the sky.
The mountains lean to drink the light,
As clouds dissolve and pass it by.
Here, the silence sings in blue,
A song that only water knows.
The wind lays whispers on its skin,
And every ripple softly glows.
The Sand and the Snow
Where the dunes of Nubra sigh,
And the peaks of Karakoram rise,
The desert and the winter meet,
Beneath the cold and endless skies.
Camels tread on frozen dreams,
Their shadows long on golden sand.
The snowflakes land with quiet grace,
And time dissolves like grains in hand.
A Road of Sunlight
A road like fire, a road like glass,
It bends beneath the mountain’s frown.
It leads through valleys, high and bright,
Where eagles chase the daylight down.
No start, no end—just wheels that turn,
And dust that whispers in the air.
One road, one life, a thousand skies,
And feet that wander without care.
Moonlight on the Stupa
The stupa stands in silver glow,
A lotus carved in frozen time.
The prayer flags dance in steady hands,
Unraveled threads, a hymn in rhyme.
Here the night is calm and deep,
The sky bows low to touch the ground.
The wind moves slow, as if in thought,
A voice without a need for sound.
A Village in the Clouds
White-walled houses, stacked like dreams,
Perched upon the mountain’s hands.
A world of silence, light, and prayer,
Above the earth, yet never planned.
The children run through alleys thin,
Their laughter echoes through the cold.
And elders sit in time’s embrace,
With stories never growing old.
The Last Campfire
The fire hums, a golden breath,
A warmth against the winter’s chest.
It flickers soft, it leans, it sways,
A tiny sun that fights for rest.
The night is deep, the stars lean close,
The wind lies curled in hollow stone.
One final spark, then darkness falls,
And travelers sleep beneath the known.
The Roof of the World
The sky leans close to kiss the peaks,
Snow-crowned spires of silent stone.
Clouds drift slow like whispered prayers,
Upon a land where gods have grown.
Above the world, yet still so still,
Where time unravels, thread by thread.
Here, the wind writes ancient hymns,
And leaves them where the yaks have tread.
Footsteps on the Glacier
The ice does not forget the weight,
Of those who’ve walked before.
Their echoes linger in the frost,
A thousand stories at its core.
With each slow step, the mountain sighs,
Its frozen veins alive below.
The sky is white, the path is thin,
Yet still, we go where few will go.
The River That Never Sleeps
The Zanskar sings in liquid gold,
Through canyons deep and valleys wide.
A restless child, it twists and turns,
With mountains standing at its side.
In summer’s breath, it leaps and sways,
In winter’s grip, it sleeps in white.
Yet underneath, it always moves,
A hidden pulse beneath the night.
The Language of the Wind
The wind speaks in a thousand tongues,
A voice as old as time itself.
It bends the trees, it carves the rock,
It writes its name in dust and pelt.
It knows the roads where nomads pass,
It whispers in the ears of kings.
Yet still it hums the same old song,
And folds its breath beneath its wings.
Stars Over Tso Moriri
The stars spill out like scattered pearls,
Across a sky of velvet blue.
The lake below reflects their glow,
A world above, a world anew.
No city lights, no man-made glow,
Just heaven laid upon the ground.
And in the hush, the silence speaks,
A place where lost souls may be found.
The Caravan’s Song
Footsteps press into the sand,
The camels move with steady grace.
Their bells ring soft, a lullaby,
A song that time cannot erase.
The desert breathes beneath their weight,
A living map of gold and light.
The dunes will shift, the road will change,
Yet still they move into the night.
A Temple of Stone and Sky
No walls confine this sacred place,
Where sky and mountain softly meet.
The cliffs rise high like folded palms,
A temple carved beneath our feet.
No gods reside within these halls,
Save wind and sun and whispered prayer.
The silence kneels before the peaks,
And lingers, nameless, in the air.
The Nomad’s Fire
It flickers bright in endless dark,
A fragile sun in hands so worn.
The embers leap, the sparks take flight,
A fleeting warmth before the morn.
The wind sighs low, the mountains sleep,
And still the nomad waits alone.
His fire glows, a golden breath,
A beacon carved in ash and stone.
Shadows on the Silk Road
Once they passed with packs of gold,
With stories wrapped in Persian lace.
Now only shadows walk this path,
The wind alone recalls their face.
The echoes of a hundred lands,
Still whisper where the traders stood.
Time has taken all but dust,
Yet silence speaks where none else could.
©Declan P. O’Connor
A traveler of words, a cartographer of dreams.
His pen moves like a river through time,
Tracing landscapes both real and imagined,
Where silence speaks, and echoes remember.
Born where the sea sings to the cliffs,
He carries the voice of the wind in his prose.
Each line, a footprint upon forgotten roads,
Each verse, a lantern in the dark.
His stories breathe in the spaces between mountains,
His poetry lingers in the hush of dawn.
He writes not to capture, but to set free—
Each word a feather, caught in flight.
