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.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Courtyard
She carries scars that never reconcile
A nurtured silence paces hard
On the nights when wolves reign the forests
It rains in her courtyard.
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