Thinking Off

Satish Verma

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.