Alpine Glow

At dusk, the Himalayas learn to breathe in light.
The sun, retreating without haste, leaves behind
a last, trembling warmth—
and the mountains catch it like a secret.

Snow turns to ember.
Ice blushes, briefly remembering fire.
Ridges soften into rose and gold,
as if the earth itself is holding a long, silent prayer.

The peaks do not speak, yet they remember—
winds older than language,
footsteps of vanished glaciers,
the patience of stone that has outlived time.

Below, shadows gather in the valleys,
cool and blue, waiting.
Above, the alpine glow lingers,
unwilling to let go of the day,
unwilling to yield to night.

In that fleeting light,
the Himalayas are neither day nor darkness,
but a threshold—
where stillness becomes visible,
and the soul, like the mountains,
stands illuminated for a moment
before returning to silence.