After The Snow Storm

It tumbles down. The real.
Heels start hurting.

Once upon a night, there
was a red moon, which used to hang
on your head and I
would watch something beyond.

No outburst of profanity
will take place, when you were
dissecting a triangle―

of rainbows. I will not
assemble the waist of a tall tree
after the fruit fall.

Gone with the snow, my
temple, my god. I am now
waiting for the looters of rings.

Satish Verma