The mist isn’t blinding,
Just for a while you don’t see,
The noise falls away...
The buffalo is not mindful,
Neither the simple farmer,
Nor his half- sari clad dame,
Grass, they revere,
Wood, they gather,
Steep valleys their sheep climb,
Soaked to the core, evening the party goes home,
Some would call it hardship,
Some circumstances,
The recluse within says,
This ought to be my life...
A pity we live in cities,
Playing the living-dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment