The mind thinks on a terrain so rough
That it forgets to stumble upon each edge
And runs along the contours
As if they were innate to the land -
To this the heart gleams
For it is unshaken
By the horrors of words
But is moved thoroughly
By the mysterious language.
That it forgets to stumble upon each edge
And runs along the contours
As if they were innate to the land -
To this the heart gleams
For it is unshaken
By the horrors of words
But is moved thoroughly
By the mysterious language.
Philosophy in poetry, you use words aptly.
ReplyDeleteArun - Thanks again. Your comment is sure encouraging!
ReplyDelete