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Satish Verma Sipping the light
from moon, playing with
dandelions, do you remember me?
Milky latex on your
hands, you squeeze the round
seeds, as if to become steady―
for a denial.
I will never know the―
difference between the twins.
Pain and ecstasy of loving the
thorns of rose hips.
Stay there, where you
were comfortable. Standing
on the edge of a steep rock
I am waiting for―
the fall.
