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Far somewhere far, stunning Manasarovar
on the far side of a mountain range
beneath a gift of blue sky rippling splashing
it’s said that “Sarovar” ever waiting
towards the road looks out
there are those who are drawn to her
enamored of her; others experience her
and there are those enchanted by her.
The old ones say—time before time, who knows when—once—
from the untold vastness of the Himalayas
a woman without compare
became enchanted with Sarovar’s unrivaled beauty
and immersed herself, emerging
her gentle comely youth turned at once to gold and then
and there a gaggle of young men grabbed her, tore her to pieces
and shared her among themselves. Some go so
far as to say 
that among them a handsome and youthful hunter
lovingly stole away with her heart
and in a moment and with gestures that would not be seen
pressed it against his own warm heart.
On full moon nights
in the dreamlike shimmerings of Sarovar
those two hearts transformed into white swans
murmuring their love talk.
They say—they are waiting for the wedding procession,
the wedding band, the ritual implements
for the ceremony, the hand-woven leaves for the wedding feast,
colored rice grains for the procession
and those leading the procession
and most of all, from the lake-born language, in that
diamond clear voice, for love.