Heart in the Hills: An Attempt At Poetry

Over there, where the stream gurgles,
before it rolls into the vale.
And through the latticed curtain of deodars,
the morning light twinkles.
Over there by the ledge, where our chalet sits.
Bedazzled by the snow-capped peaks.
From there, watching the changing colors of the hills.
Blue, golden, purple, crimson.
The theatrics of dawn and dusk.
At night, in the tender moonlight,
The hearth and your embrace keep me warm.
In the morning, under the eaves we sit,
Our feet swinging over the ledge. 
Watching the valley,
Your head resting on my shoulder, 
Our hands clasped, we sit,
Wrapped in the morning mist.
Is it really mist, or wisps of your breath,
Or perhaps vapors rising from our coffee mugs?

Over there, when the breeze whistles,
as if happy to have kissed your toes. 
When the trees rustle and the soaring kites mewl.
The mountain birds croon in the greens.
Over there, when the whispers of the valley rise,
We lock lips, as the prayer chants rise. 
Conch shells. Drums. Cymbals and bells. 
The calls of the azaan. 
The merriment of the boarding schools.
Tinkling bells of yaks.
Sighs of wanderers.

Where the gentle rhythm of your heartbeats.
The rise and fall of your bosom.
The tenderness of your mouth, the twinkle in your eyes.
The fragrance of orange citrus Shea butter in your hair. 
The warmth of your slender hands.
Over there, on the hill, on the ledge, by our chalet,
I will meet you again.