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.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
New Dress
Chambers of secrets exploding white
Haunt me in the loud sun sight
New dress I wear for her wedding night
Clamours I hear through inconsistent lights.
No comments:
Post a Comment