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Talking Tree

He was worried about the thumbs, amputated, so that he could not write or fire a gun. The last convulsion was a drag every pain was going to be memorable, he etched on translucent arms. Between the shouts a silent sob scatters the rainbow. The writing on the lips becomes invisible. Sweetheart, don’t go into the rain. Clouds are wounded and sky is dark. Shadow of talking tree is becoming longer. SATISH VERMA

Copyright © | Year Posted 2008




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