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May 2018
Brown was the tree trunk
That we hugged when we played
Brown were the leaves in autumn
Delicate and frayed

Brown was the moth
That couldn't stay away from the fire
Brown was the bed
Of my grandfather's pyre

Brown were things
that the poets made poetic
Brown is the colour of my skin
Then why is it not accepted?
Priyam
Written by
Priyam  24/F
(24/F)   
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