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Love, foul nor fragrant
When a rare crescent comes to be,
Moon’s silver so scant comes to be.
From love no fragrance comes to be,
So often foul scent comes to be.
No use digging into the past,
Nigh but wry repent comes to be.
Break no mirror to pry look in,
What has for long meant comes to be.
If ye look in a long closed heart,
The same old scar’s dent comes to be.
You can’t exert much like an ant,
Life in lent only comes to be.
No matter how backward man bends,
Seldom the past spent comes to be.
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Ghazal |11.07.2025| love, past, moon, mirror, heart
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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