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Little white death laid on the table : a pool of hushed silence. Mother would not cry. A mystic river flows in roaring heart giving no relief to old wounds; unbuttons the temper. Purple eyes kill the black lashes. Tears are filling the deep canyon. A blue lake reflects the nervous face walking on the edge. The marbled plasma splits the crowd. Another bell jar comes on for display; the preserved heart, fingers and toes : gives the birthday acknowledgments for the sake of unrivalled life. SATISH VERMA

Copyright © | Year Posted 2009

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