The Warrior, The Son, The King: MAHARANA PRATAP
A Different Form Of Escape
When I desire to hear the birds sing, Through the network of greens. As the cool breeze catches hold of my locks, In the scape of the snowy peaks, And dew drops make a fall onto the tip of my nose, With river water weaving ways in between my toes. I reach that serenity with another form of escape. In which oil trickles down my fingers on to my cape, And colour gets smeared by the bristles, Over the whiteness of cloth of the canvas. -D.P.
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