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Eyes half-shut, you are seeing,
unseeing to house the failing light.

When the tornado writhes down, will
you come to clean the rubble ?

And splash the bird, the sky in purple ?

I am afraid of myself
to explore the craft of non-living. 

When the silence descends, I will
know myself, like the bone of Buddha.

The words will not give
any relief, whipped into terror.

Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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