poets of the earth.
We were like the poets once,
warriors of the sky.
Let us return to old glory..
We shall make a rainbow,
we shall make the rain bow.
When the winds blow in the mountains, they create a music with the river and leaves of deodar, oaks and pines. A man never thinks of poetry, but observes it, feels it. The words do not exist then, only music. The soul of the mountains one cannot capture in pages. I have only tried to write about the music, and a little more from elsewhere. Mountains send the winds to other places too.