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Satish Verma There was no final
truth in half-lies. When
you were hunting moon,
I was talking to myself in trance.
You were different,
but obstinate, I survived
your savagery.
Like a castaway after
fighting with my gods, I am
preparing my own tomb.
Holy wars were a great fun.
With changing tribes
and casts, you couldn't spell a mantra.
A lip-lock with death, was
blackening the tongue of sun
you will not stand on beach.
No virtue left in featherless flight.
