Saturday, March 21, 2015

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.

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