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, November 9, 2010
Dahlias
Love is found in abundance in the dead sea bodies never dissolve and drown; she floats with dahlias in her hair. He loves the dahlias, she always felt they never spoke in words in the dead sea.
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