It made rickety sounds walking it's way across the grass that was turning yellow with the season, the wind was like dry perfume, the wind rustled as it combed itself with the pine leaves. The tanned leather on its hide was old and showed wrinkles of a lighter colour, trotting downhill, one could see the slope covered with wild grass and an occasional stoneseed or a forget-me -not. Humming the tune of the old mountain brook as it went downhill into the small town at the hill's foot, it possessed a pace that talked of the ripe apple upon the vernal trees and morning dew upon white Lilly petals, it told stories and sang odes of days that turned into nights with a habit of descending peacefully upon the town . It had bells that would tinkle like a brook in the deeper wood and sing it's tale to kids who ran on the small lanes of the town, kids who chattered, around small shops glowing peacefully in the light of oil lamps.


varada said...

Is this entirely your work or an extract from some book!
Its very well written :-)

Sagar said...

varada~ oh, I did not expect it to be so good, but I am glad you liked it. :-)

varada said...

Well, it feels like the start of a fable that has a long way to go...
some dreamy quality that cannot be expressed


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