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
Peace of Mind
I liked you in curly hair zara-se bikhare now, I see a picture and your hair straightened.
I am not irritated, a bit upset at my memories.
This is not the best thing I've to say and so, with insanity I believe you deserve another poetry.
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