{Pic Courtesy : Him}

Rolling its blues against another blue,
the sea, and against the sky
some yellow flowers.

October is on its way.

And although
the sea may well be important, with its unfolding
myths, its purpose and its risings,
when the gold of a single
yellow plant
explodes
in the sand
are bound
to the soil.
They flee the wide sea and its heavings.

We are dust and to dust return.
In the end we’re
neither air, nor fire, nor water,
just
dirt,
neither more nor less, just dirt,
and maybe
some yellow flowers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fields infused with yellow-colored exuberance enfolds a traveler, tired yet ecstatic, who deliberately mapped out some space for that much-awaited meeting with the Yellow Flower fields, in his journey, with a profound non-human conversation. The Yellow fields are known widely for their language, which casts the oldest spells over humans, a language only an artist could understand and speak. Far-off lands, people live in foreign lands are materials for our dreams, which we see with our eyes wide open, and trapped with that allure charm, we whether or not like it, walk around with a displayed distaste for the land we live, the surroundings we breathe in. The great old wisdom says, when we see things from afar, they reach out to us as something very special, mysterious and a body carnival like festivities, so that means, do we have to detach ourselves from the environment that’s within our reach and watch it with renewed eyes.  And the queer sense of exoticism of foreign landscapes that live in our dreamy eyes, tend to grab, fiercely, a deep layer of mystique aura, when they are captured and sent by a stranger? am curious to know - which element of this image is reinforcing its captivating beauty? the grounded tree with its head held proudly against the blue skies, providing a constrast-like experience to our eyes so that they could sink into the softness of yellow fields or the heady, bewitching vast stretches of yellow floral beds, who have this wicked plan tucked in their floral hearts to leave our palms benumbed with their gossamerish flower dust when we dip our hands into the picture?        :)    The Postcard like picture reminds me of “The Wind Will Carry Us” by Abbas Kiarostami.