Monsoon Rain
The constant pouring monsoon rain
in the middle of the Himalayas
In the high air
Every day
Before I walked up that steep hill
Before I saw all that rain, rushing in streams down that mountain
And there was just the green, the grey and the red
The red of the Tibetan monks in their robes
The red that did it and their friendly faces
I would invite them
And they would come
Right before dark
Knocking on my door
I donʼt know how young they were 17, 14 even younger?
They slipped into my simple room
while monkeys were banging on the metal windows
inexperienced hands, and my 24-year-old body
so ready, so glowing, so understanding, so wanting to show
being like that mountain
and everything underneath
waiting for that rain to come
a long season of rain
for seven weeks
I forgot their names
But I didnʼt forget
That incredible desire burning in them
Deep voices singing in the background
And the bells of the stupa rang
And the murmuring sang throughout the town
And rats caught at night were spread out in a different place
Because they could not be killed
I remember
I so remember
The hard lips
lips that had never kissed
Hands that had never walked the path on my leg
That had never even touched the warmth of a woman
They all were so young
Forced to be a monk for the family
But there I was
The sound
The heat
The red robes draped all around us
Our nakedness
The coming so quick
The embarrassment after
each one of them
And then I would show the other path
As if we took another door
The hands now softening
The melting
All without words
No other language
My lips now speaking on their skin
The hardness waiting
The smell of their sweat of fear
Fear of every sound
Every sound that could mean the end
But the monsoon rain never stopped
Christel Janssen
