Whispers of Masto

 

In the hush of hills where prayer flags fly,

The snow-fed wind sings a lullaby—
To Masto, Lord of peaks and pine,
Whose spirit stirs through stone and shrine.

No temple walls, no golden bell,
But tridents watch where ancients dwell.
The Dhami stands with eyes like flame,
His breath a bridge, his soul the same.

The drumbeat rises, wild and deep,
As chants awake the gods from sleep.
The jhakri dances, lost in trance,
And spirits rise in sacred dance.

We offer grain, we offer ghee,
We call our past through memory—
In every cry the soil replies:
"The gods you seek in you arise."

So when the moon burns white and near,
We bow not out of doubt or fear—
But faith that flows like mountain streams,
Through roots and rocks and broken dreams.