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Tryst
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Satish Verma I will watch the field,
but not play the game.
Do not want to win the toss,
for no one to loose the chance.
When you go for the final swim
rules must change.
The ugly knocks have resumed
their pilgrimage through blood and bones.
Timeless flesh will decide the event,
death of the soul.
The tryst with unknown begins
charting the resentment on hearts,
clinging like sorrow. Sun has sunk
deep in the blue lake.
