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Not Thinking
Folder:
Satish Verma Death was too candid
sparing the stone cutters.
The essence
touches the ethos
of dirty feet.
Pain without
fringes seeks the solace
from severed limbs.
No one else will
know, how kind were my bruises.
Crossing the symphony
I have reached at your
silence of shivering lips.
We touch each other
by words, our voices baked.
