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Satish Verma Some things are not said,
uncoupling the cut glass.
Flowers will not come
from the new moon.
You collect the hundred
loops from your hair,
and part the heat. An
ancestor turns in his grave.
Collect the grapes, fallen
plums from my garden.
I am not sure, how long the
spring stays. You were
not ready for the
rocks, for sure.
I am scraping the song
written for a tree.
Cannot decipher the sap.
