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 10, 2009
No particular thoughts..
1. So much I have written on love and loss Now I really love the candy floss.
2. You come rushing into my heart
I fall a little, one more part.
3. All that happens is for good they all said
Reading it in your message, I doubt you too have fled.
as alwz toooooo gud..............but written 4 whom????lol
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