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.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Arth
tumhari paribhasha ke maayne kabhi poore nahi kar paaya main haar gaya tha apne hi shabdon se bikhar gaye the arth zameen par jaise moti tumhari maala se, aur main samet-ta rah gaya unhi ko jo maine hi piroye the.
No comments:
Post a Comment