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.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Flute Forlorn
Flute forlorn played in background few lines she tried, Words returned from the wall Oh, she cried! she cried!
Memories abandoned in a honey jar "They look unfamiliar," she lied, The last cloud rained last night Oh, she cried! she cried!
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