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
Stories
She kept stories in her pallu tied along with the keys that made sound like tiny bells playing with her anklets. I heard her songs in the gallery that I could feel with little hands music of tiny bells she played to tell me stories.
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