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Jun 2022
These are black days
in purple cubes. My intimate poems
were still nascent, accounted for.

You become Mimosa pudica
in the cusp of liberty. You have emptied
yourself by sending god to other religions.

Tell you, I may forget me,
but will not forgive me. When I left my coat,
our ancestors were already gone unspoken.
Written by
Satsih Verma
127
   Healer and Ledge
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