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Sep 2013
The morning sun,
The twirling vines,
The chirping birds,
The cooing alarms,
The whizzing brush,
The laughing babies,
The rising moonlight,
The evening windows,
The passing moments,
The whirling memories.

Each and every thing talks to me these days,
The passing wind says the sweetest of all things,
For it softly whispers your sweet name in my ears.
My HP Poem #420
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl
Written by
Àŧùl  33/M/Kàrnál - Hàryáņá - Bháràŧ
(33/M/Kàrnál - Hàryáņá - Bháràŧ)   
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