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.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
From the other side
I have arranged and rearranged all the colours and patterns when a eye has looked into my room.
When I look out the glass takes the world far away all hazy, and busy.
Sitting inside the kaleidoscope, the view is not so colourful.
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