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My Injured Self
Folder:
Satish Verma In your big eyes
my mission ends.
I lower the flag to half-mast.
The steps were small
to follow the footprints
of the demise of an affair.
Embracing the words,
you had felt pampered by
the demigoddess
of broken hills.
The white muslin, weaves into a wreath;
would be laid on the unbuttoned secrets.
The night watchman
stands guard till the last
candle burns out.
