Shambhala
- GODSAVEME
- 5 days ago
- 1 min read
Poem no. 33, 31st March 2026
In Isfahan, amidst a bamboo courtyard
She pauses over a persuasive passage that leans in excess
It wouldn’t darken her ink yet, but it was an illusion.
The first Rigden King set down his manuscripts
And settled into their shared space.
“Notice the break in thought …”
Neither a challenge, nor a demand
She traces it back, line by line,until her ink released what it had ingested.
He nodded once.
“Perfect...”
Nothing else lingered
Save for the harmony they had created.
In Samarkand, where caravans cross without revealing doubt,
She studies the route that doth not forgive.
The 2nd Rigden King returns to her as he said he would,
He sits and becomes half of her mind,
“If we cross here, we avoid the flooded lands...”
No instruction, just noticing what would have failed.
Nothing escalates.
Later, she lies by the fire.
For a while, he remains awake,
Holding the horizon in his eyes
Ensuring the Light would always shine
In Edo, where the paper screens mask dusk
She works within the narrowest of margins.
The 3rd Rigden King kneels in, holding up time.
Tea is poured and placed within reach
Neither professed, not offered
“You are looking for this edict...”
A scroll is set before her.
The contradiction resolves without requiring explanation.
In Shambhala,
Each King prepares to leave
They realigned the darkened papers
Returning each of their selves to order
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