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by Satish Verma May 6, 2022 category : Nature, environment / nature
A poem dies in me. I search for you again deep in my breast. The initial spurt of the raging thought? sleeps on the rags. With scrawny fingers? you write a verse of? moon in night. The half-moons rise in the vacant looks like venus flytrap. Do not pluck the? blood roses. My fingers were still bleeding.