Neither a jungle, nor a garden

From the desk of Vitasta Raina

Dated: December

Time: Irrelevant

Notes from the grove

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Neither a jungle, not a garden,

my spirit resides in a forest.

Planted and tamed,

yet as wild as a river

traversing the mountains.

They don’t write songs about nomads.

These trails are not tended by eager hands.

Footsteps, mellow, confident,

walk on mud and weathered sands.

Infinities dissolve as they speak.

Was your garden tended?

Was your jungle wild?

In forest groves among the tall trees,

musk-roses grow on weedy soil.

Places unkempt, yet wholly divine.

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