ON THE HOLY HILLS
The mind yearns for a rebirth,
Shedding the egos as a cat or a bird.
To regale myself in the wilderness;
Chatting with the giant perennial pine trees,
Conversing to the fumes from misty hills;
Who seems pregnant with some messy affair.
Remote from the troublesome hectic world,
Where the mind is kept awake,
And the soul knows its utmost fullness,
The opulent wood gives me a call;
As if with a former familiarity
Assures to disclose who I am!
Are there sages, any, meditating
With an aura of purity emanating,
From the bewitching whitish beard.
Can we get our lost ones, the dead?
Grazing there, on the green leaves,
Clothed in the divinity of the virgin woods.
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