Poems compel themselves to be written. The brain becomes the medium. Language becomes the tool. Ideas write themselves down. It is a big network with society's mind.
Golden hills - painting - oil on canvas - Mr. S.Chellaiah
The light painted the hills In myriad shades of gold The green trees basked Are they jealous in green? You can see their smiles You can feel their joy You can sense the warmth Lessons to be learnt By the learned mortals.
No comments:
Post a Comment