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You were aging by nights.
Days will not seek 
to defend you.

Drawing the landscape 
of a snowfall, 
you will die in a portrait.

The world meets 
you again like a jawless 
lamprey with sucker mouth.

Beyond the blues 
lies a tower, where 
you will not find the stairs.

In battlefield, stands 
the army of red ants, ready 
to pound upon the moonlight.

Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016

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