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by Satish Verma Oct 23, 2017 category : Nature, environment / nature
That roasting night when honeyed moon hung high weaving a humming sound I spoke to clouds. It happens every night, when smoke rises to discover the pain of a falling star. I start making a god from earth and water. The colors will come from golden tears and eaten heart. From wooden legs and black widows, from an embattled dream. The day rises with the mute songs of unread thoughts. You reach your otherself by a back door of hunger.