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.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A dark mind
An angel rushes through my mind floating with the waves, I look outwards to find the love it hides in darkest caves.
oh......finally aftr a long tym........some new posts..............dint undrstnd d tea & coffee one....but dis ones gud.........
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