I've seen you flowing like a river,
very lonely for a very long time.
Reluctant you pass underneath the bridges.
Come into me, I am the cloud
I will carry you into the mountains.
We will melt in the rains.
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.