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Oceanic Art
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Satish Verma A silent vigil was on,
for sun, which was getting
ready, to pass on the baton,
to sleeping moon in a winter storm.
In frigid cold, I walk in
snow to cut the greens.
Needles poke my arms to taste
the blood of a kiss.
The ironic curl, moves
a sin. Won't you celebrate
the white death with me?
I ask this question to myself.
A kingfisher dives in a
desert stream, for a spiritual kill.
