Gyal writes of the waterfall, breaking through a century of stylized form Strange but the imagery was reminiscent of Kubla Khan I wonder if he ever read Coleridge’s work? Maybe, maybe not. I was in the town of Chentsa Everywhere there were signboards in Tibetan, Chinese and broken English One boasted of the best meal and another a rendezvous with girls, dyed hair and plastic implants In these changing times are monks no more gullible than street ‘prostitutes’? The sun scorched through the wide brimmed hat and duly burnt my insidious thought. Outside the town now I walked in silence near the fateful waterfall again The pony had jumped into the swirling depth, its head playing hide and seek A little while later it disappeared under the froth and dark water My movement predetermined, I looked to the left As usual he was dead, the eyes turned inward in permanent sleep I yanked his hair at the betrayal and whispered, “A fucking waste!” Flies hovered the air in avid anticipation, their flapping wings tearing at my heart A paper wind horse flew from a car window and landed on the rocks Someone’s foolish hope- on which no doubt the sky will piss in sheer abandonment.