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, August 12, 2010
Sensuality of words
Sensuality of words is drawn on the lines
of your lips, twitching at where you
bite, as you hear me sing one line of
your favourite poetry.
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