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Trading the sweetness, a rainbow on icefalls, you will come back on rocks and drink the elixir of death. A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler, ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass. The pink goddess of wealth will descend again in your bowls. Brassica will decide the future of grass. The moon ride has become cheaper in cans like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god. Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable in groves jacarandas were smiling. Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers between the pages of history to meet the shadows on the walls of time. SATISH VERMA

Copyright © | Year Posted 2009

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