They modeled their hats
after the edges of the Machhapuchhre,
they smiled and their demons
went off to play with the yeti.

It did something to them—
living and dying under those eternal peaks,
carrying trekking gears across hill-trails
eventually up to the mountains.

The peaks shot out to the universe,
breaking the boundaries of the horizon.
They moved across the borders,
the lines of a child's stick figure drawing.

But in Ghoom Pahad,
even as they lived each day
amongst those of the slipping delta,
on land reserved,
only, barely, uncertainly for tomorrow
they said:
As long as we see snowcaps outside our window.