The sun commands the lake to dance.
Blue, green, and rubber-ducky yellow
columns shoot up through pinprick stars.
From a bumpy wood recorder, a boy in rags
sends notes to meld with the colors of the breeze.
He stops for a breath, a smile more brilliant
than the crown of Annapurna growing on his head.
All has become clear. There is no need
to travel further, no refusing the dignified shacks,
the shimmering prayer flags, the low-slung boats
sailing miles above their brilliant reflections.
But now, perfection threatens to last an eternity.
The music floats away. A familiar stranger stands
at the edge of the lake, peasant skirt, denim blouse,
and a shoulder bag filled with promises of paradise.
It is the Himalayan Lady of Death,
and when she smiles, all of Pokhara
is sucked into the black circles of her eyes.