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Sinking
Folder:
Satish Verma Your becoming, cuts the moon
in half. I come
blind to hold the
knife.
The aroma of the bush
prepares the golden cups
for drinking milk from the
rage.
His wings were glued, the bird
will not be able to fly
in the night of despair and
song.
Immerse yourself in the assault
and the kiss of blizzard. The
snow is strong, wind is very
low.
