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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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: August 26th, 2018 21:13
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
Offline)
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