Choking with dust,

on the way to Gaushala,

I look up to see brilliant blue skies,

we will pollute that too,

when we will find a way.

Two layers of quilt,

imprison me in the warmth,

but my thoughts run free

over hills and creeks,

over wild flowers frozen

and rocks turned to ice,

over huddled huts,

of bamboos and mud -

people who bravely survived

when the earth shook,

who now shake because of the cold.