Where they issued from the doors of Vishnu

Then took the pilgrim road, in those days

Just a stony footpath into the mountains:

Not all who ventured forth returned;

Some came to die, of course,

Near the sacred waters or at their source.

We took this route and spent a night

At a wayside inn, wrapped tight

In the single blanket I'd brought along;

Even then we were cold

It was not the season for pilgrim

And the inn was empty, except for the locals

Drinking a local brew.

We drank a little and listened

To an old soldier from the hills

Talking of the women he'd known

In the first Great War, when stationed in Rome;

His memories were good for many drinks

In many inns; his face pickled in the suns

Of many mountain summers.

The mule-drivers slept in one room

And talked all night over hookahs.

Manohar slept bravely, but I lay watching

A bright star through the tiny window

And wished upon it, already knowing that wishes

Had no power, but wishing all the same. . . .

And next morning we set off again

Leaving the pilgrim-route to march

Down a valley, above a smaller river,

Walking until I felt

We'd walk and walk for ever.

Late at night, on a cold mountain,

Two lonely figures, we saw the lights

Of scattered houses and knew we had arrived.