It is a remembering. Of how to listen. Of how to feel. Of how to turn mountains, moments, and breath into something that lives forever on the page and in the soul.
✍️ POETRY TREK AROUND THE HIMALAYAS
I did not come here to write.
I came here to listen.
To the wind that knows ancient names,
to rivers that never repeat a line,
to stones that hold verses
older than gods.
In the lap of the Himalayas,
poetry does not come from me —
it moves through me.
Each step I take on the mountain trail
breaks a rhythm in my chest —
and rebuilds it softer, slower,
truer.
Because no page can hold this sky.
Because the Himalayas are not a place —
they are a presence.
A thousand metaphors tall.
A silence that edits your soul
without asking.
Because walking here
is not escape —
it is entering.
Into a world not measured by clocks,
but by clouds, breath,
and the long pause between thoughts.
We rise with the sun,
ink-stained fingers and hearts wide open,
sharing verses around firelight,
journaling under constellations
that feel too close to be real.
We stop often —
not because we are tired,
but because the view has said something
that needs writing down.
We write beside monks,
beneath prayer flags,
inside tea houses where words
taste like cinnamon and altitude.
We hike not to arrive,
but to unravel.
And somewhere between footsteps and stanzas,
we find ourselves rewritten.
Because this is poetry
as it was meant to be —
wild, unfiltered,
in love with the wind.
Because when you walk through Himalayas as a poet,
you don’t collect lines —
you become one