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White Snakes
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Satish Verma A retrograde flow
of subtlety. The
letters have gone out of shape.
Can you read the
fog, when night stalls
the moon?
How do I express
my agony, this huge precipice
of denials?
Love your enemy
was not my cake. A
tender no was enough to subtract.
Suddenly you start
flirting with yourself. After all
you melt in the picture
of fall.
