Late poems

There it is my own mountain with a mouth open at its top ,a hole in childhood village where monks lived for peace.These late poems breath life to the old choked with bare trees.

A good old poet sets about re-ordering pines avoiding the clutter of the top clouds,to be free of unseasonal rain with resultant mud to sky. Rain drowns a pine’s loneliness at the top, late poems are about.

Krishna’s mountain frees us from pebble rain of angry gods when we are down in its under,what our late poems are about.

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