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Satish Verma It was a severed finger
in an envelope,
which wrote the letter
of consent.
Oh, my father
I am still crying
with loss of words
and figures.
Past the hills
I sent the secret of
my poems which did not tell
me the name of knife-
that was put in my back
by my unknown
brothers of shame. I will
now bleed all life.
It was only an
apology. I will still
walk with my toes drawing
the stripes of welts.
