SONGS FROM THE HILLS

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?

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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.

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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.