There were the Western Ghats, bursting throught the bellies of which were leaves, branches and roots; of every concievable shade of green, though now with a lazy stroke of dusk rendering them a sort of hopelessly beautiful, tragic quality, with the promise that the night was about to come... or maybe hopefully beautiful haunted quality of the promise of the morning that will eventually chase away the night.
There was some mist hanging across them- like the veil of something that needs protection (not everyone will find it easy to believe that something as tough as mountains need protection in the form of a gauzy lacework of clouds and mists,though). And right across the heart of the mountains hung this infinitely fragile threadwork of diamonds- molten diamonds (if anyone has ever heard of melting diamonds), trickling like beads of prayer. This was the most beautiful present the monsoons decorated the Ghats with. Yes, it was the most beautiful waterfall.
Why, when one sees a watefall (water fall) across rocks, one feels joy, longing, beauty, hope and sadness all at once?
of drizzles across my misted window
of the waterfalls that flow
of the word unsaid
of sunlight on my bed
at the beginning of time
of your hands in mine
of realization of our dreams
that surpasses all our screams
who could make my life
who could be your wife
that like silences and words will grow
that through ethers, spaces and time will flow