Dear hills,
Writing to you while I am sandwiched between three unknown people who looks like they belong from your territory.
Writing to you while I stoop forward in the last seat of the jeep as it slips down in one of those snaky curves of your green lush body.
I see you taking houses butt-way sticking out from your pine forests. I travel through you as people dig through your skin and put cement and sand to seal that pattern. And you stand, protest-less, mute, observant, still peaceful, still a mother.
I keep coming back, like a little kid does, to the garden where he finds his favourite flower. I keep coming back, guilty to wipe out the last drop of peace you have to offer; but then you dont have a last drop. You keep refilling.
I keep coming back like a voyeur to see how you make love to the clouds, all through the day, from the first drop of sunlight that dilutes all over the sky till the darkness of the night kills the last bit of the sun.
And then there are people who choose you, over advantages of a city, over privileges of an easier life.
I see them choosing you over everything that every other textures of the nature can offer.
And I feel more guilty.
I keep coming back and you keep smiling, arms out with your rhododendrons, mosses out from rocks untouched, valleys that are slowly turning into lifeless cemented snakes.
You breathe into me calm as birds return back trading through a golden sky changing leads, as squirrels carry nuts into one of their holes in your soil that they call home.
People call you an escape. People call you a momentary vacation. People choose you selfishly only when they want to breathe little different from their luxury-spread sofas back in the plains, and I choose you as homecoming.
I choose you because you make me cry just by being there, just by groping the sun back into your curves, just by showing me that after one uphill road of sweat comes another easy downhill of leisure, just by whispering into me oxygen when all my mind can think of is violence.
I have so much more to write to you but just then the jeep passes dangerously almost-hanging the cliff's side, and I see clouds possessively trying to hide your curves with it's shadows from the sun, which shines selectively through the clouds into your valleys.
I have so much more to tell you but just then it begins to rain and I see every bit of you celebrating the showers.
I have so much more to say but your beauty numbs me, and this numbness is so addictive, I keep coming back.
And finally I realise why 'hill' and 'heal' sound similar.
From someone,
who drinks shamelessly from your valleys, the elixir of peace;
a drunkard.
Writing to you while I am sandwiched between three unknown people who looks like they belong from your territory.
Writing to you while I stoop forward in the last seat of the jeep as it slips down in one of those snaky curves of your green lush body.
I see you taking houses butt-way sticking out from your pine forests. I travel through you as people dig through your skin and put cement and sand to seal that pattern. And you stand, protest-less, mute, observant, still peaceful, still a mother.
I keep coming back, like a little kid does, to the garden where he finds his favourite flower. I keep coming back, guilty to wipe out the last drop of peace you have to offer; but then you dont have a last drop. You keep refilling.
I keep coming back like a voyeur to see how you make love to the clouds, all through the day, from the first drop of sunlight that dilutes all over the sky till the darkness of the night kills the last bit of the sun.
And then there are people who choose you, over advantages of a city, over privileges of an easier life.
I see them choosing you over everything that every other textures of the nature can offer.
And I feel more guilty.
I keep coming back and you keep smiling, arms out with your rhododendrons, mosses out from rocks untouched, valleys that are slowly turning into lifeless cemented snakes.
You breathe into me calm as birds return back trading through a golden sky changing leads, as squirrels carry nuts into one of their holes in your soil that they call home.
People call you an escape. People call you a momentary vacation. People choose you selfishly only when they want to breathe little different from their luxury-spread sofas back in the plains, and I choose you as homecoming.
I choose you because you make me cry just by being there, just by groping the sun back into your curves, just by showing me that after one uphill road of sweat comes another easy downhill of leisure, just by whispering into me oxygen when all my mind can think of is violence.
I have so much more to write to you but just then the jeep passes dangerously almost-hanging the cliff's side, and I see clouds possessively trying to hide your curves with it's shadows from the sun, which shines selectively through the clouds into your valleys.
I have so much more to tell you but just then it begins to rain and I see every bit of you celebrating the showers.
I have so much more to say but your beauty numbs me, and this numbness is so addictive, I keep coming back.
And finally I realise why 'hill' and 'heal' sound similar.
From someone,
who drinks shamelessly from your valleys, the elixir of peace;
a drunkard.
