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Thursday, December 21, 2017

The man from the Mountains.

The steep concavity between mountains, with the soft and sensuous sun light trailing through their bends make me feel as if I can read their curves, bends and slopes like books of sonnets and stories, tracing each page in its sacred soliditary; as the curved landscapes ramble , roam and converge with each other like enchanted lyrics.

Although they seldom talk, but when they do, their thunders frighten me, their swift flowing rivers try to take me along their deep canyons that had been labourously carved out by million of years of erosion. To everyone else their song seems ever frightening yet my fear dissapears for I know they love me, as I am the man from mountains.

One Fine Evening




He was rolling in laughter
In chocolate dirt.
He was falling in love with his mud castle
And I with his beautiful dreams,
The shells were shining beside him
And so were his baby teeth.
He played and played till sun called it a day.
I kept sitting there as the dusk was over, but too old to play.

Alas, the days will not come back.
Alas, the world will be Grey and black
Alas I will never be a child again
And believe the world to white once again.

To the crimson sun over the ocean so deep.
I bid a farewell but did not weep.
I took a shell from his mud castle and in my pocket I keep.