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Satish Verma The shift to vernal tone
starts a standoff with eyelashes.
A sickle moon begins
harpooning the stars.
The unorthodox microlove
brings out a ciliated canon
of faithless interior. The gods
were going to become weary of snowfall.
Punctuating the silence, words
again scream, fly like eagles
in the valley of wounds. How far
the fire will go engulfing the untouchable?
