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Satish Verma Milk thistle cheated me.
There was no incarnation.
The solitary purple flower
was my leitmotif.
A girl was taking bath
in rose water on moon.
This was a poem of night,
alluring the sleeping snakes.
A thick blanket of snow
covers the wounds of earth.
You swear and spit and become
the saint of all the fugitives.
The yawns had crashed
on the bed of pointed nails.
How long you will take to
get ready for a revolution?
saint for fugitives
impressively needed :D slc