Travel Storm

I travel as silent air-

inert, mystic, in my own self

with the image of mountains,

God-like mountains folding themselves,

the sublime snow melting 

into straying flow of a fine river-

the water shines in the pupil of eyes,

singing through meadows, mumbled though

like a girl finding a way in her own skin

away from home where she is mum,

surging and streaming through ferns-

reminding and resurrecting lost love

of this life in curves 

where tiny rocks have been waiting

to be kissed over and over again

till the girl grows into a woman

with her own face and feet

awashed and tingled by fishes,

reaching sea like drowning into a pool of emotions,

so myriad that the clouds inflate above,

make way to the outpouring sea

in the bliss of gypsy rains

like the nomadic woman falling

back and forth, in and around

the diaries of rambling dates,

flattered in the company of sea yet

complaining of its calm,

rushed sighs, raving towards the valley

dream-like, passive, unabated 

in lucid hopes of meeting a fellow one

as silent as the air

of its primordial beginnings.

The image shift to the bluest of oceans,

life-less and life-celebrating deserts alike,

to the greenest of trees barring the light,

vast savanna and marsh mangroves like,

I travel still till I am a storm of my own.