The Savage Mountain?

This is the fastest post that I have written so far. It took me about 20 minutes to compose. I guess it would seem obvious to you once you browse through. Don't know why, but I think am going to remember this post for quite some time.

Cold tar, of a combination bizarre,

in shades of Grey, intermittently black.

Displaying the moods of nature, of terrains, of paths of cry.

Ten feet of width, and people pass, with little regard,

for what lies around. Prayers; subtle, fearing a shroud.

Huts, of a combination bizarre,
like splattered bursts of civilization,

proofs of a unified individualism,

disparate yet bonded, in a manner vague.

Of jewels against a green slumber,

like gems on a big fat belly,

reflections of what lies above,
twinkling in the distance, quiet and naive.

Paths, of a combination bizarre,
now extinct, like wrinkles on an aging face,
sword-marks, a blueprint: narrating footsteps,
exaggerated by the moon, pacified by the Sun's galore

They say the mountain still comes to life at night,
to reach out to its remains, to heal its self.
Little do they realize, amidst their honey dreams,
After a gruesome day, its the right time to sleep.

Pain, of a combination bizarre,
swaying by his ridges, she whispers in to his ears,
may be an anecdote, a few resilient words,
while he sits there triumphant, bruised yet amused.
Emotions of the inexpressible, an occasional slide,
as he tries to shrug it off, all this, bearing the human load.

Wise men say that I am closer to the heavens,
I thank the gods for the absence of the 'human touch'.

Sharad Kanwar Raj
September 21, 2008