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
Observation at Chandni Chowk
He's desperate to sell She's desperate to save Fighting over few rupees Equal to which I spent Unassuming over shoe-polish, Poverty in the market place It escapes as it hits
if one can give time to observe...and then feel, then one is blessed..:)
ReplyDeletethank u rina :)
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