An autumn

Autumn again, cool air rolling down the hills,

the lake empty - no tourists shouting, no social media reels,

just the soft slap of water on the sides of the houseboat.

I like it quiet,

always did.

But the valley doesn’t.

The valley lives off the crowd,

off the men who come to sell paper boats and embroidered scarves,

off the women who smile tired smiles,

and now it’s just bottles floating,

plastic uncared ghosts of summer dreams.

They told me once the water was drinkable 

can you imagine?

Just lean down, cup your hands,

and drink from paradise.

I sat there for hours in that wooden houseboat,

until sunset,

while hawkers came by,

selling everything from saffron to walnut wooden boxes

they call out to me as a tourist.

Maybe it’s the tongue I never learned,

or the face they cannot place

on a map of belonging

Later I drifted through the market,

walking through body of crowd,

roads torn open by construction,

swarm of Army trucks rolling by

And there I found a small bookstore 

smelling of yellow paper and comfort 

I wondered how many books a store like that can hold,

how long before the pages give up

when nobody reads anymore,

when thumbs scroll faster than turning pages

when nobody has the patience

for beautiful things.

And I thought 

maybe patience of being discovered

waits anyway,

quietly

like this autumn,

today