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Your mercy was very
little O god for equal-halves.
Nobody was perfect.

Alive and kicking
yet harmless, the moons were
alone in togetherness.

You always lied. How
deep was your pain, when the sun
was rising without light?
Are you ok? When
the moon rises on sea, I become
worried about the blue butterflies.

The Morning Glory always
inspires me, in her swaying to
welcome the beautiful dawn.

And when your sleep
goes, you start reciting shlokas
with smoke and sparks.
Words were white, but
in the end days replies were black.
The retreat translates to old age.

You ask the death to
stay at bay. When you were born, there
was a loud sound. Dying will be voiceless.

What is the philosophy
of giving away one by one your bones
and flesh. Only soul will slip away unknown.
In void of departure, you get
a rose a day. Your eyes were very red.
Was there any violence in your path?

What should be done,
when the moon becomes very small like
the man, who will rise from ground zero.

Your queen of night
spills a scent of unknown smell.
I become a bohemian of suffering.
No death stop for colored
marbles. I am not dying to bring
the childhood for once.

Pretending comes to the
fore. Midriff of the moon was taboo.
This was a slaughter-a-day.

Are you a Mimosa pudica?
Not to be touched in sunlight.
It starts moving vigorously.
Slowly the pain of
heart sinks in dark. You write on the
coal-light. Without rhyme love is lost.

Your noises eject some
questions. There were no answers,
when you stand in water to find mercy.

The lesser success-meets
the love, honey, sequence and incognito.
Don't Come when the owl calls.
Satsih Verma Apr 7
Ah, my soiled words
may hurt you. I placed them on
the altar of faith.

A psalm delivered by
a crimson red rose. I will write
another sacred poem.

The torches are dead
and I cannot read the script of
unwritten dharma of god.
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