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, March 17, 2013
Wind, Wings, Sky
The wind is dead and wings not dry at the end of your toes there is a sky don't kick it just yet, till you can fly..
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