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.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Bottles
Playing the stars in sky that was ours, laughing and cursing reliving the wars.
Singing same song all night long, making the answers for things gone wrong.
No comments:
Post a Comment