Shivers. Shivers of her tresses on the dance of winds that howl in the valley. Shivers of his nerves as he looks down in shuddering depths of the lush gorge.

Ever been called to jump in her open arms that stretch from wide horizons, eyes everywhere enticing, a thousand small dewdrops that stare back at you..

Well places do that to you. Places trodden by many before you, yet their footsteps hidden by time, deep below in rich layers of red and black mud. But moist enough for you to walk again and stamp anew with the caterpillars hanging by and the eagles soaring above. It’s that call again, to connect deep into yourself. Back in times when you walked these rains and suns, back when the shelters were provided by huge boulders and ancient canopies of trees.

Back when you looked, cursed the suns and yet prayed it stays afloat just long enough for you to reach the base of the forts. The base again robs you of your ego and gasps. There’s this gigantic work of man, lorded by the dark clouds above. And all that drags you up there is a singular mark of will and gritting teeth that flutters on the top. A flag makes its noise known to you. You were called back then, you still are being called. Come home it says. Come with humble feet.

So walk now. Make way for that last drop of stamina to rush through your veins, call out its comrades and ooze out of your body in sweat and sores. Walk so that you may lose your mind and the thought gives up. So that the last ounce that remains in you is left for the nature to fill in. Let the mist and fog take you back into primordial times.

Become the valley. Be in the valley that in her womb fills waters from high slopes and in those rivers where take birth and die a thousand worlds every day. The peaks are not our muses. It’s the song of  walks and the rafts that we sing on our ways. Those peaks, they are our temples. But prayers we learn to say silently as we find our way through the dusk light, into the depths of darkness where we rest for the day. A day spent well, a day spent in the tao of the rustles of wind.

We might be few when we start, we might be silly when in our chuckles when we trot. But it’s the rivers that chuckle in us, those streams that trickle on our foreheads. We take them with us on our way back from peaks and dips.

We are travellers. And travellers don’t talk of their secret pacts with the gorges that were frozen in silent gazes.

We shall be back again. As different men and women albeit, but back in your arms we shall find the embraces we longed for all these times. And again we shall walk with you. In you we shall find our home.