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
Musings
There are miscellaneous memories
in which I never return
where faces merge with faces
and voices grow faint
breif recollections of events that mattered then
stories barely unfold before I move to next.
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