Behind the Monks

Kharkhorin, at last: the town beside the ghost of Karakorum, capital of the largest land empire ever assembled, of which remains, above ground, approximately grass. What remains instead is Erdene Zuu, the oldest monastery in the country, built in 1585 partly from the ruins of the vanished city.

I arrived as a file of young monks crossed the yard, robes bright red against the whitewash, moving with the unhurried purpose of people whose schedule is measured in incarnations. I fell in some distance behind, matching their pace without meaning to.

Walking behind monks through a yard built from an empire's rubble: the whole region's history compressed into one diagonal crossing. I write it down exactly because it needed no arranging.