Morning was a poem about the blue hills and the men in dreams beyond  their blue veined existences.

In the distance there appeared a blue hill in  a smoke rising. Blue conch flowers boomed in the hills. They were a dream within a dream.

Mountain flowers are blue bells
Beloved of spring in mountains,
Like seashells blowing fine music.
In a distance , the hills are blue.

Hills are smooth and a fine blue,
From a smoke we see going up,
Our horizons blue and receding.
From hilltop the sea is blue sky.

In Rajasthan they have blue houses .They hide their blues in them.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s