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
Three Years
In three years, he would have moved away
unbound
into the sky she covered behind the clouds
that rained, but did not dissolve.
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