Echoes of the Himalayan Hearth

High where the sky brushes the tips of pines,

village life unfolds in the rhythm of ancient times.

Roofs of slate under Himalayan blue,

each morning greeted with a canvas of dew.

Children’s laughter tumbles down cobbled paths,

echoing through fields, as wide as the mountain’s grasp.

Women at the wells, sharing stories old and new,

their voices weaving through the mist like morning’s brew.

Yaks graze on slopes where the edges of the world blur,

their bells a gentle clank, a mountain symphony’s stir.

Men return from forests with wood piled high,

faces weathered like the peaks against the sky.

Smoke rises from the hearths, a spiraling dance,

carrying the scent of juniper and the warmth of chance.

Each night, under the glow of a silver moon,

village elders recount tales, the lore of monsoon.

Why do these mountains, cloaked in green and gray,

feel more like home than any place far away?

Is it the simplicity, the peace they’ve come to show,

or the purity of life where the cold rivers flow?

In the heart of the Himalayas, life moves slow,

seasons change from monsoon rain to winter snow.

Yet, the warmth found in this village high

outlasts the coldest days, under the clearest sky.