the colors of the wind

she once read a story about a girl who listened to voices from the mountains. 

and how a poor boy tried to catch a bowl of mist.

she loved to imagine how jane eyre looked fondly over the green rolling meadows from her secluded bower in the garden, in the beautiful light of the gloaming.

she herself used to sit for hours in the mellow evenings of the late 70s, looking at the splendour of the  skies, the beckoning hills, the friendly green trees, the colorful rustic village ....

and those calm bewitching twilights by the fence on merbah hill...looking down into the valley...hoping for a glance.... a brief second of chance encounter... it was a teenage girl's secret dream...

she stood at the edge of time. she walked away when the star was within her grasp.

now she reaps the colors of the wind...