The Western Ghats

How can I confine to mere words these sights that pluck so fiercely
at the chords of my soul?
These things that play to me silent symphonies in the concert halls of
my mind?
I want to sing you ribboned peaks with fur of green lambswool!
You surely hear the quick steel drums of the sun on bleached brown
skin;
The bright green cymbal plash of a newly hatched field on the valley
floor?
Listen! Bassoons play the inky tunnels through the trees -
There - the rustic house on an old and mellow flute;
The lazy thrum of jazz bass is a buffalo sunk to his shoulders in
sliding cello mud;
The oozing river dances to a slow blues piano between sultry palms on
clarinets.
And wide unending vistas roll out on kettle drums,
To vibrate on the tightened horizon of some other's awestruck gaze.