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Satish Verma You wanted to be covered
with dahlias, unmeasuring―
the depth of tears.
How do I go finding
an elegy―
in dim moonlight?
En route I will pluck
the stars, in September.
And when the river goes in spate
and you are submerged,
I will spread a blanket of poetry.
Who wants the eternity
of soul. My love was very frail.
