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, September 28, 2010
illusions
He makes window frames
on the walls that are cold and stoic
with the ageing of the years.
Often, people come and open the frames,
to find more walls.
He did not create windows,
only illusions of the openings
that do not exist.
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