Comparison
Clouds were drawn
on kisses,
yet your body
burned like a hot cinder.
Probability of the sin?
Incestuous,
pure love,
my roses were hurting you.
My tongue choked
your tormented words like hails.
It was not me,
only the whirling fear.
Your hands were carving
a moon out of the frosted face
and I was collecting
the fallen stars.
SATISH VERMA
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