petite and lean figure, the head shaved, tanned skin, Tanned and prematurely wizened by the harsh sun, Fouling in the dust of the roads so many days of arduous journey. Tattered and dirty clothes, despite the protection afforded by a large leather apron. A pair of sandals preserving their hands every time erosion piling their knees on the ground and extends her body lengthwise on the floor.
Dorje, whose name was imposed in honor of the symbol of the storm, has traveled the distance that separates his home Gyantse to Lhasa, the Tibetan holy city, making continuous prostrations, one for every three steps, and send the old precepts of Tantric Buddhism.
Now finally consummated their long journey and has achieved its desired goal. Just enter the Barkhor Square and at the bottom sees the legendary silhouette of the Jokhang Temple, the Tshuglakhang or cathedral of Tibet, silhouetted against the blue sky gray, crowned by the golden glow of Dharmachakra. And that vision illuminates his emaciated face with a joyful expression of ecstasy.
Dorje, whose name was imposed in honor of the symbol of the storm, has traveled the distance that separates his home Gyantse to Lhasa, the Tibetan holy city, making continuous prostrations, one for every three steps, and send the old precepts of Tantric Buddhism.
Now finally consummated their long journey and has achieved its desired goal. Just enter the Barkhor Square and at the bottom sees the legendary silhouette of the Jokhang Temple, the Tshuglakhang or cathedral of Tibet, silhouetted against the blue sky gray, crowned by the golden glow of Dharmachakra. And that vision illuminates his emaciated face with a joyful expression of ecstasy.
