Quietly poplars emerge in Leh,
High in the snow of bared hills,
The hills stripped of their green
By a forgetful blanket of winter.
From the Buddha peace above,
We look down on their clusters
In a muddy rockscape nestling
Ochre monasteries in its ridges.
Everyone here lives in poplars
They give them the life’s wind
And are no eerie wind sounds ,
Their deadwood fine geometry.