By Rinchen Angmo
Someday we’ll stand in front of Singey Khababs (River Indus),
It’ll be a witness to us,
To our hopes and dreams,
To our tears and screams,
The Frozen Mirror
By Lhundup Gyalpo
A bunch of yellow and listless leaves rustled in a small eddy by the closed door. The wind blew in a melancholic whirl, whistling in a doleful hum. Nine thirty-two in the morning, the house was still dimly lit, bereft of light; a thick overcast kept the sun away in its sombre folds.
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