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by Satish Verma Oct 13, 2022 category : Nature, environment / nature
Something was always missing. I wouldn't recognize me. In my quietism, I dig out the words, that would give me otherness. The ocean accepts the martyrs of woody frames. Fuel was not sufficient to burn them. Moon sizzles in black fumes. Pure cotton was needed to make wicks. There will be a night vigil. Where the crowd assembles. I will present the thoughts of a wandering soul of unknown prophet.