Sitting in Katra, at the foothills of the Trikuta mountain range, surrounded by the valleys and snowcapped peaks, amidst the passing clouds, is an ideal setting to pen your poetic thoughts or compose a poem – and so here is the poem I composed some time ago.
A dialogue: I, standing mighty
I am the mountain range
Your white
cottony fleece
ridden with
pilling and fuzz balls
Elbows through
valleys of my thoughts
Are you a momentary interruption
to my dream
or are you my dream?
Your white whispers
a secret retold easily
in your crestfallen downpour
that winds echo softly,
hidden previously
in yawning recesses
of my primitive gorges,
perching precariously
on my coveted ridges.
I, standing mighty,
am shrouded (perturbed?)
every now and then
by your ambling and mooching
You! Your white arrogant tuft!
Your wispy soft sauntering strands
Are you a transitory interlude
to my dream
(is it time to awaken)
or are you my dream?
