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Àŧùl Oct 2021
Here it comes,
The great war it's called.
Stuck you're since eons,
But good news comes with the herald.

The war will be over soon,
You can finally return home.
Don't celebrate your loss,
You lost many friends.

Those friends that died,
You sang melodies with them.
Melodies to the Goddess of death,
Melodies to the wife at home.

Now be strong,
And move along.
For they are dead,
And the dead don't return.

This war showed you a lot,
A lot that matters to you.
Friends are like leaves,
They are lost in the wind.
My HP Poem #1945
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Oct 2021
They all seem to fade away,
They drift farther everyday.

One day comes and you are lonely,
Love yourself as you're yours only.

They're mortal & so is everything,
As for me, I don't know anything.
My HP Poem #1944
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Oct 2021
A striking increase in absorbance of DNA upon denaturation is known as the hyperchromic effect.
The two strands of DNA are bound together mainly by the stacking interactions, hydrogen bonds and hydrophobic effect between the complementary bases.

In their native state, the bases of DNA absorb light in the 260-nm wavelength region.

When the bases become unstacked, the wavelength of maximum absorbance does not change, but the amount absorbed increases by 37%.
A double stranded DNA strand dissociating to two single strands produces a sharp cooperative transition.
Source: Wikipedia
My HP Poem #1943
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Sep 2021
A poet is someone who rhymes,
Or at least takes care of structures.
A poet is someone who just sings,
Or rather makes music of the verses.
A poet is someone who bleeds black,
Or even weeps a rainbow of phrases.
My HP Poem #1942
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Aug 2021
You there,
I love you.
You are so sweet,
I admire you.
You are so sharp,
I like you.
You look less cute now,
But I bet you were the cutest child.
I love talking to myself,
This was about the kid in me.
My HP Poem #1941
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Aug 2021
Midriff burning sensation,
Exactly as if it will explode,
Nocturnal timings help,
Stark daylight is undesirable,
Troublesome five days,
Ripe burning inside the temple of life,
Under the wicked sky,
Awry is the cup for collection,
Lopsided is its construction.

Cusping the proof of life,
Unfailing burning sensation,
Pouting by the end of a month.
Phlegethon is a stream of fire or fiery light.
My HP Poem #1940
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Aug 2021
Beyond sacred geometry,
Hides a dark secret.

A secret of stolen symbols,
And stolen concepts.
My HP Poem #1939
©Atul Kaushal
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