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Satish Verma I do not know,
If it was a religious assault―
to meet god,
face to face―
when my poem was burning.
One tooth broken―
I cannot speak properly. But
my eyes will show my angst,
my unretrieved light
from a tunnel.
Who will find the sun, when
night was sick? And grievers
had gone to dig up a grave?
There was a meaningless pain,
in waiting. The poem was dead.
Day you are in, day you
are out. It was a beauty
to hear nothing.
