Yet another rain drop, but its my lens to the world.
Sweet when it rains, salty when it flows over the soil of time.
Chronicles an alluvium of nostalgia and scars.
My home in the virtual world, I fondly call it, The White Bougainvillea.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The rhythmic coppersmith barbet, And crawlers in the leafy carpet. The bending branches creak, As wind sweeps the dense teak. The faraway calls of deer, Glistening the pebbles flows water, clear.
Like the forest, my dear muse, I clear my thoughts to listen to you.