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
So it goes..
You colour the roses that were once blue,
And say love is true in me and you;
I seek fragrance even if colour is blue,
And I'll keep love true for me and you.
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