At my door

Yesterday, the man who died on the road to cross the road,
I have never met him.
The girl who did not match any new sari,
I met him.
On my old diary page-

The date of the first kiss given to her lips is written.
There was a time when every day at my door,
One who would have left at least one rose.
Who would have taken that flower from a garden, I do not know.

Just that day, opening the door in the morning did not get any flowers,
It is clear, I have sigh in the death of a loved one on that day.