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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Connected Stories
She is the tangent to his thoughts; and yet
while he is stationary in his beliefs,
she keeps sliding along his boundary
to meet him for brief, connected stories
that have no endings, like one dream
from which he never wakes up.
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