“The Legend of Shangri-La” / Chen Qu Fei

“Potala Palace”
Rising against Lhasa’s skyline,
white walls and crimson roofs, like snow lotuses suspended aloft.
Millennia-old stone steps bear
the weight of devotion.
The palace of Tibetan kings,
the pure land of the Buddha.

At dusk, the mountains blur,
and Potala Palace shimmers in the sky.
Countless prayer wheels spin,
their wishes echoing in every whisper of the wind.
Inside the great hall, Buddha’s gaze
is distant, yet full of mercy.
Smoke from the incense drifts upward slowly,
carrying worldly desires through time,
flowing along the pilgrims’ path.
Countless devotees kneel at its base—
their hearts, Tibetan-blue skies,
boundless and profound,
awaiting the cleansing of a single snowfall.

“Shangri-La”
Peaks stretch toward the heavens like lotus petals,
capped in snow, erasing all traces of time.
Here lies the legendary hidden realm,
a forgotten sanctuary, far from the clamor of the world.

Rivers sparkle under the sun,
soft as a dream, telling ancient tales.
In the silent valleys, time seems to pause.
People’s smiles shine pure, like morning dew.
Temple bells echo softly, incense rises,
carrying prayers to the endless sky.
The wind whispers across verdant meadows,
breathing eternal secrets into attentive ears.

Shangri-La is a solace for the heart,
a distant lighthouse guiding the lost home.
It is not merely a place,
but a pursuit beyond time and space,
taking root in every soul that longs for peace.

“The Lost Horizon”
Snow peaks pierce the sky like blades,
their icy breath, the silent murmur of ages.
Ancient temples stand amid the mountains,
quietly guarding immortal secrets.

Golden legends drift with the wind.
Whose dreams, whose desires, have been buried by time?
The laughter of Tibetan folk
traverses the plateau’s solitude,
their footsteps dancing with heaven and earth.

Every stone holds a story.
Every snowflake reflects the soul’s eternity.
The wisdom of lamas melts into streams like snow,
and the secret to longevity is simply a heart at peace,
breathing with nature, coexisting with all beings.
Beyond this lost horizon,
Tibetans seek not time,
but eternity.

“Sky Burial Plateau”
You sleep atop the snow peaks.
The wind murmurs the Buddha’s whispers.
The Sky Burial Plateau rises in the vastness,
an unspoken stone stele.
The sky-burial master’s blade opens the body,
and with it, worldly attachments.

Bones shatter, scattered to the wind.
Vultures circle, summoning the soul home.
Feasting on flesh, they share this final offering with heaven and earth.
Here, the cycle of life unfolds:
the body becomes wind, becomes soil,
melds with the snow peaks.

Clouds above record
stories that cannot be spoken.
Each soaring vulture
carries away fragments of a life.
And we, standing below,
witness a silent farewell—
while the soul has already transcended time,
ascending to the eternal cycle.