OM MANI PA
A tiny string of prayer flags hangs still this time from a fixed point , my kitchen window in the sun . Six sacred syllables spelling hope .
No longer buffeted by the winds that frayed them , bleached them , no longer chasing the far horizon the flags stay put pinned to a frame .
These multicoloured t prayer flags , each bearing a segment of a mantra , once spanned the motorbike ’ s handlebars , the Himalayan bikers ’ calling card .
Free , daring , compassionate , the touring bikers ’ fellowship identifies itself by invocations to the Universe , to one God , or many .
I now look at the sacred mantra and intone it in a hushed voice . I am a butterfly pinned to a frame immobilised just like the tiny flags .
My colours fading , my hair greying , I was once a warrior , fighting hardship , danger and fatigue . I am now a fading butterfly , captive .
Without far horizons to pursue , or nightly embraces to anticipate , I crave sleep on the off chance this estrangement is only a dream .
Om Mani Padme Hum I take refuge in the mantra while the wind horses spread the message to the sky .
TRAVERSE 122