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 Mar 2020
Aditya Shankar
The people I meet
Seem like forgotten voices
In an old, long dream.
The sunlight on my skin
Seems like the faraway light
Of a ship disappearing at sea.

But the clouds, the clouds float by
Suspended chaos amidst the trees.
'Neath my torn feet, swirling grey and white
The mist has no form; shapeless, like me
If only, if only...

— The End —