The mist on the range is sniffing with the glory
Glory that brings to life the joyful buds
The Western Ghats look more glad than they ever did
As if they swing with the pride of the emperor
The emperor is known to be sitting in the arena of the west
The arena of the grand lord, known since eternity for his magic
A magic that pulls us, akin to a magnet pulling the metal
As we drive through the magical ranges, we feel dwarfed
Feeling dwarfed means feeling big
A sudden rush of grace sweeps us
The aura of the still ranges makes us swell
When you stand quiet, you stand tall
As the drive thickens, the ranges get more candid
They start talking to us a little more
The virgin innocence of the city captures us awestruck
The hustle bustle of the land is way off
I close my eyes as the sun begins to recede at dusk
Telling me, almost – a story went well told
It awakens a sense of relief
As I look forward to tomorrow’s sunrise atop the ghats
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