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Some Fantasia
Folder:
Satish Verma You cannot carry it
to the end.
I will not put up any claim.
Walk through my heart
in snow.
I will paint a yellow moon.
Come October, I
will weave the wreaths of
smoke, to invite the piper.
Where would you
lead me under the autumn
fall? My name holds nothing.
I will not be last
word in the novelette of a legend.
Stories come and fade.
