No Strings
A fast in hurry. you
pretend that you
were dead.
The legend survives,
putting the land’s blood
in the grass roots.
The tremors had started
in the blue flame. A lunatic
calls for the moon to explain.
The tides were not coming ?
Watching hopelessly;
the decline of sinkers.
A watershed of humility.
The river has left the
body of water.
Satish Verma
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