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Satish Verma Leave me with abba
after devastation. There was
blood before the dawn.
The feathers were floating.
And why should one weep
when the lake was dry
and there was a corona
discharge from the man's face.
I remember not, all the
ugliness of life, when I was
growing roses in my books, like
a moon striking my pen.
The road was there, the tree
was there, but your footprints
were not to be seen. Where have
you gone my words, I was waiting?
