Naked truth

Some thoughts are stationed at home.

Moon and sun put down their traditional color

Before their reappearance

At every dawn and dusk

Sky attires itself in shades of

The last stoke of the brush from the palette

Few habitations do not have doors

Seasons shed their odor

At these junctures

Roots pertinently revolve

Consistently sprouting on mud paths

Few foot prints

Are still at my door step

With stamps of soil

Maps of destination are drawn by the visitors

Abodes still do not lie

(17-6-13)