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.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Either Mistakes
What you found yesterday was a piece of word not completely consumed.
Why do you try to find meaning in a word half spoken?
Such beauty ! An underlying sorrow found me. Its is beautiful mate.
ReplyDeleteAditya.