I was sitting in a Gazebo of the zen garden that was swallowed by the fog. As were the mountains of western ghat by the clouds. No one knows who made whom. The mountains and the clouds. I made a poem from the scribbles on the paper. Words that survived the dampness in the air now spoke the glory of this beauty. Shared with the aloneness. 

Then walked a Scarlet robe towards me. Faceless. 

“Where is your identity?” I asked. 

“It has disappeared in the mist which made me mystery, Now I have become you and you have become me”. 

I cried the river, flowing in my chest.