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CRACK OF DAWN

The king
made a fun of our poverty.
Marble faced girls always thought,
wearing black scarves –
sweeping the floor of white mausoleum.

You made a death
a loving eternity.
We die daily
in the face of old shine.

Who shoots a peacock
on the tree?
I mourn for the blue peace,
let the clouds come.

Who remains unhurt
unpained, when the night calls?
I seize a moon
to enter the crack of dawn.



SATISH VERMA

Copyright © | Year Posted 2008




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