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Satish Verma Was busy
carving out the white clouds
like stanzas, unflawed.
Now I begin to fall apart.
No meaning was left in a drink.
You could see only your image
drowning in a scented charity.
At last I am watching myself.
Black paper. The ink was white.
Speechless. No body language.
Only you will discover the space
between the unspoken words.
Only buttons know the hollowness
of a floating gun. Meeting you in
an empty glass. Future will always
talk of a setting sun.
