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Unroofed
Folder:
Satish Verma It haunts.
You still want to see the-
beheading, piecemeal
in borderless pain.
The war had defrauded my life.
An unsoiled moon
was taking depressed steps tonight.
Faith healing had stopped.
Floaters swim again in view.
A forbidden place.
You do not want to visit the
Blood-soaked turf.
Darkness enters
the poem.
