High country.
Old country.
Tea country.
Terraced.
Steep.
Peaceful.

Hidden in high altitude fog.
Scatterings of houses.
Hills dotted
with rain smoothed rocks.
Sweet rain.
Rainbow ridden parabolas.
Rhodedendrons and lichens,
the speculation of wild owls,
the prisms of waterfalls,
fresh and clear,
ever falling, flowing
secret yet unhidden.

In this backwater of civilization,
these untainted lives
sing loud,
tuned to the natural age.
Protected
by the glorious mother,
the Himalayan range.
Where the mist rises
effortlessly,
kisses the houses,
curls round the rocks,
in a private cloud,
timeless,
lost in a Nadu fog.

In the night,
under myriad star patterns
the drips run and drop,
as the owl glides in silvered silence
after fat frogs
that can't help crooning for love,
on the terraced foothills
that stretch
far above.

White dew.
Milk-blurred sunrise.
The last of the moths.
And a landscape again
that's kind on the eyes.
Mildew that makes maps
on the rocks and the walls.
The mountains stand resolute,
towering, and tall.

Rain country.
Great country.
Tea country.
Cherished.
Immaculate.
Under the sun.