My father walked on the roof
at night alone.

He used to come to his son’s home
seeking summer’s relief
from his nine month’s home alone
at the Himalayas foothill.

But he couldn’t leave the chill out.

His seven decades of mind
defied his frail frame
as he hugged the plain’s winter
without a woolen
painting summer on my roof.

Rarely I would be with him
but when he came down
he would speak animatedly
the constellations he had seen
the milky way
about the quarreling owls.

Wish I were there with him
all his nights on the roof
making four wandering eyes
looking at constellations
marveling at the milky way.

Now on some winter nights
I go to the roof alone
without my son
remember father
my heart aching in the thought

One day my son too would come

**Alone