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Satish Verma even vultures will not devour the proffered
war time victims, ruined was the impression
of untitled sacrifice, a wild anemone
slips into the river of blood, I tend to forget
the faces of embers –
arson by apostles of peace, it has become a commodity,
oppression releases a promise for optic illusion
through large-prints
a near miss when the truth chokes to death,
suicidal full of nerves-
the hills tremble in anticipation, lambs
were dropping dead on a green patch
such obligation
