satishverma

Thinking Off

Category: /General/
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The clouds hang on the strings.
I cannot dry my eyes.

Picking up the pine cones, on grass―
one by one, as the years went by.

How did I lose my home again?
Were there not footprints in snow?

The caladiums, you planted in
summer, had the crimsoned spots.

Like the kirmizi sun
dipping in lake one night.

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