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.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Gloss
Blue blue gloss red red floss candy bars lipstick stars.
Criss-cross! Criss-cross!
Candy floss lipstick gloss blue blue stars red red bars.
Criss-cross! Criss-cross!
Lipstick gloss red red bars candy floss blue blue stars.
:D
ReplyDeleteclever-tricky
tricky-clever
Whimsical, but I detect something serious here.
(Yeah, OK, I'm nuts) :p
But this is beyond measure on my "like scale".
:)