By Gaurav Parab
the snow
the people
the wind
everyone and everything
are running away
from these mountains
like tears from a face
to a simpler place
to easier times
to caged birds
to fruitless trees
and peaceful bees
on noisy roads
to predictable clouds
over straighter lines
holding readable signs
Except Uttravahini
Flowing back home
Oh her nerve
Straight giving way to curve
To the hills
waving to the wind
Like the other
Returning to an old lover
In a town
Full of ghosts
And a readable tome
Back to her home
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