’Twas the hush of high evening at West Air Temple,
Where the mountains hung silent, immense and asymptem—
Upside-down halls clung tight to the sheer canyon wall,
While the moon brushed the spires with a silvery shawl.
The wind whispered softly through archway and bell,
Through courtyards that once knew the monks’ laughter well.
Every glider lay resting, each banner lay still,
As the stars traced their paths over valley and hill.
Young lemurs were nestled with tails tucked in tight,
And Appa snored gently, a cloud in the night.
From the chambers inverted, from ceiling to floor,
Dreams floated like feathers through each open door.
Then faint as a breath came a playful “Yip-yip!”
And the wind seemed to answer with joy in its slip.
For the spirit of freedom still lived in that place,
In the curves of the stone and the air’s soft embrace.
Though fires once threatened and shadows once came,
The temple stood patient, unbroken in name.
For the West Air Temple remembers the creed:
Let go of the world—let your spirit be freed.
So if ever you’re weary or burdened with care,
Think of halls that hang lightly, upheld by the air.
Where the night hums with peace and the dawn starts to gleam,
At the West Air Temple—where balance is dream.