Sunday, July 31, 2016


There’s a certain cold blueness
that wraps round the mountains,
slides down the pepper vines
choking the spiky coral trees,
blooms with the elaichi buds in the backyard,
and brews in the black tea
that you sip, shivering under blankets.
Sweaters and mufflers can ward off the chill,
But what do you do when the soul feels cold?
Wisps of mist swirling over peaks
to embrace the snowy puffs
valiantly swimming through louring grey skies
that leak day and night, drip-drop-drip,
In a fine powder-rain.
These hills, they hold secrets as ancient
as the hills themselves.
The oldest and the truest of them all?
“To love is to lose, and to lose is to love,”
whispered the wrinkled hills, with a sigh
that echoed in the wet valleys.