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.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Red
I don't like Red
Paint me a rainbow
With only six colours
And see if you can
Arrange Indigo
Between Green and Yellow.
crisp...i love this..!!
ReplyDelete