The lone light source

On a far away mountain peak,
overlooking my hotel room's aluminium framed windows,
shines a yellow pointed light.
The bright red end of my friend's

cigarette clung between his fingers
gives out fumes, tracing serpentine shapes
in the clear night.
"What is that lone light on the mountain?"

asks a friend. I remain silent,
dissolved; my mind far away,
in the search for the light source, leaping
from peak to peak, at times slipping

on the dew drenched grass,
falling in the depths of anonymity .
A cluster of clouds float near my knee,
gives my mind the flight again,

to the lone light source's mountain peak.
In my room here, the question has receded
in the joyous din of the television blaring
out the cricket match.

Rendering me inconspicuous; my body
sans mind, which wanders on the
cloud, conspicuous to peaks and moon;
perched on that peak.

Finally, it has found the
lone light source. The owner
of the light, made a deal with my mind,
not to reveal its secret buried in the mountains.