Letting my imagination run riot while driving through the ghats in the monsoons..
*********************************************************************************
Driving through the Western Ghats in late July,
Overcast skies - strong winds tossing her hair,
The young woman watches green mountains cry,
In waterfalls she will drown her despair.
All her memories and sad delusions,
Fade away like the passing clouds above.
She feels one with nature - no illusions,
While seeking comfort to deal with lost love.
In the distance a rumbling sound echoes.
Shaken out of her quiet reverie,
She's disturbed, it's not thunder - that she knows,
A falling tree perhaps, but that's eerie.
In better days, at such noises, she'd scoff
But now, she''s unable to brush them off.