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If a poem has a life of its own,
and each life, nothing more than a dream,
*aren't you and me, poems written in dreams,
of someone, in some planet, some time?
The reality we know speaks the language of  dreams; do we understand it's cosmic scheme?
Everyone blind
has a sun each.
In loving sun,
eyes have limits.
Sun is merciless,
blinds any one
who  tries to overreach,
that's not a lot of fun!
After a day's
relentless march,
a spectacular dusk,
announces the finis.
Night comes on tip toes
a disguised thief,
to rob everything left
none would resist.
The world is in masquerades,
if you are lucky enough
get the beams,
of moon's cool grace-
on your searing wounds,
and sleep without dreams.
And then again
breaks the dawn,
with an innocent smile,
as if it is the first time ever;
the game continues.
Quietly watching from this bank,
admire the river's fervor
in breaking every barrier
that comes on its path,
to reach its true love for ever,
the sea, boundless.
The enchanting one, sits opposite
her eyes on mine, rest,
amorous intention evident,
drags me to her, *I am game
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