Pciture perfect, shining moon in the river, ripples of goldsplashed water in the quiet evening, peace, Mongolia.
As rare as a morning uncluttered by thoughts, where herding the cows is the only concern, were moonset and sunrise rule the grasslands…
as rare as a monastry in the middle of nowhere, somewhere, nothing around for miles and miles, no direction home. rare as a silent night.
as rare as a national highway with noone on it, mud-dirt track in the rain. Mongolian national highway, on the way to the Lake.
as rare as a Lake you havent been to for lifetimes, yet you remember it across wild space-winds and the cycles of time, as rare as getting to that Lake after an Aeon has passed, against all odds, in a hush of galactic memory… and it’s still there, the same as unfaded memories, as clear as Cygnus in the Mongolian night
Hush, ,the stars are sleeping…
as rare as a sailor in the Mongolian navy. There’s only about three of them – they were all on this boat.
as rare as a Mongolian moon