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
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There are thoughts that not even blink I am trapped in one of those I think.
It's been long and I try to wake up, struggling to find a word to take up.
ah! trapped in a thought...loved it
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