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Satish Verma Moon was not faraway.
It rejected the evidence against the rhyme
and proceeded to release
the poem.
The colored bracts of
bougainvillea, fall solemnly, to kiss
the grass. Spring was around
the corner.
Quizzing a stone, a dream
crashes in my hands;
becomes a tiger moth and
settles on your lips.
Future turns into a shell.
I pick it up from the beach of time.
Play with it for sometime and
give it away to my offspring.
It was the beginning. It was the end.
