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Morning Mist
Folder:
Satish Verma A complex question―
it was. Why your
hands were trembling?
The body becomes
a kayak. You were sailing
alone in the lake of bluebells.
Elegy and epilogue
become one. I have come
to meet my humming bird.
Still suspended in
deathless space, the sun
wants to hide.
The revelation
was not to solve the enigma,
but to listen to inside.
