Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Fling

It was only a fling, an annual thing.
She came to sing, binding soil & leaf like string,
Olive was her shroud when it touched the ground,
Grey when it was when she roamed amongst the clouds.
It was sweeter than birds of spring, when she began to sing,

It was only a fling, an annual thing.

(Monsoons in the western ghats in India)

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