Nestled amidst snowy peaks, stupas and grottoes whisper ancient tales.

The Qilian Mountains stretch across the horizon like a silver shield, sheltering the Wenshu Temple within its cold, gleaming folds. A stupa, resembling a bronze sword etched with scriptures, pierces the clouds, pointing towards the heavens. Copper bells suspended from the eaves sway in the wind, shattering the thousand-year-old frost and snow. Grottoes, like a honeycomb built by wild bees, are densely embedded in the mountainside. Each niche enshrines a Buddha statue, bathed in the halo of yak butter lamps, transforming the gold leaf and cinnabar of the murals into an eternal flame. Meltwater from the snowy peaks, carrying the scent of pine resin and sandalwood, cascades down the cliffs like silver ribbons, converging into a crystal-clear lake before the grottoes. The lake reflects the jagged silhouette of the stupa, resembling a fissure in the fabric of time—on one side, the worn gilding of prayer wheels; on the other, the swirling clouds around the snow-capped peaks. Chants penetrate the stone crevices, intermingling with the chirping of mountain birds and the tinkling of yak bells, brewing a heady morning mist in the valley. The mist drifts over the folds of the painted sculptures' robes and permeates the ribbons of the flying apsaras in the murals. As dusk descends, the bronze top of the stupa is the first to blush crimson, and the outlines of the grottoes gradually fade into grayish-blue. The snow-capped mountains, however, become increasingly distinct, casting their cold light upon the temple, adding an ever-lasting ice lamp to the remaining yak butter lamps. Even the wind treads softly, as if afraid to disturb the whispers slumbering within the stone walls: tales of camel bells along the Silk Road, the sighs of painters laying down their brushes, and the cyclical advance and retreat of the snow line. Manjushri Bodhisattva's wise eyes remain lowered, folding all these stories into the lines etched upon his palm.