Lungta - རླུང་རྟ་
- GODSAVEME
- 2 days ago
- 1 min read
Poem no. 30, 31st December 2025
The white horse landed at sea
whilst the Time Maker lifted the orb.
He inclined it toward Her,
a silent offering
,for she had already forgotten him.
Far from the shore, waves rolled and crashed
A sorrowful fracture widened.
His exile would begin here
He remained the first gate, the son of continuity,
For that which set into motion
Would move on without the hand that blessed
The white horse reached the King's dome
where the Time Keeper inscribed a liturg yupon her hand.
Each line was given its hour.
A labour of cadence
a ceremonial devotion
for a union that had borne its weight.
She waited at the second gate.
To forget was not a failure of the mind,
but the passage from weakness to strength.
The white horse rode closer to dawn
where the Time Watcher sealed a vigil.
He stood at the final gate.
And in the emptiness,
whispered the names of those who once surrendered
not to call them back,
but to let them pass.
As here at last, lay the crossing of the Lungta.
He could not follow Her.
He remained,
so that all that might be
could pass according to their own will.
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