6 Jul 2017



We celebrate what we think is art, 
All the colors are draining out, 
Every noise is a shout. 
Each a cry for attention,
An attempt at pretension.
Every time I take a walk,
I need to create something to talk,
Where has the silence gone?
How has this dissonance won?

In picture, A Buddhist monk at one of the rest stops of the bus, he was traveling with us from Keylong to Leh, I did not understand a thing he said, but he had a smile all the time and looked happy.


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