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.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
I'm Sorry
A shiver and then you writhe, maybe.
A sound dissolves into your breath.
Do you close your eyes pull your head back and smile?
Tell me how it feels,
ReplyDeletewhen he touches you.
Rocks...