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
Musings of Hyenas
Darkness from the trees in surrounding dense forests Light that stirs unevenly in slopes Ruskin’s tales of ghosts A traveler’s introduction to frights, And then, in the villages of mountains Hyenas cry at nights.
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