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, July 18, 2012
The Sea Inside
make me out of madness dressed in summer humidity my eyes explode my hands explode the lights explode it is dark inside me it is dark inside me take my insanity from deep inside me
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