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After the organic death of soaked breast, I put up tiny islands of eyes in spooked water. The dead were coming back to live on the terrace amidst the roses of roof-garden. I talk to flowers to end the war. The light was waiting behind the hills and birds were ready to sail. Were you afraid of mother earth or roaring sky ? The corpses are standing in row to receive the mighty wrath. Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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