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.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Me. Myself.
In my notes there are odd references to love
that often tread on the limits of infringements
some that follow till destruction.
No comments:
Post a Comment