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Death’s Wings
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Satish Verma Tryst with enemy
bakes the earth.
I am standing firm on dust of times
with rising threat. In vloaks, under the fading
moon they had come,
plundered my yard of truth and blackened
the face of an ancient statue of sun god.
The terror walks on streets
sequencing the genome of unborns
in womb; soot was settling in the lungs
of windows. Tomorrow night word by word
memory will be mauled, uncovering
the pyramids of fear.
