Author Information
When You Pretend
Folder:
Satish Verma You should stop
telling me, that you don't
deserve me.
Come hither
to pay back my anguished
calls. Sky was becoming red.
No Mayday would
be needed. I will not undulate,
will not play with needles.
Between the palm
leaves a death blows
chopping off the hands of artisans.
It was futile to collect
the forget-me-nots. No
angel was ready to come out of bed.
It was a religion
to squeeze the tears,
before you stoop to conquer.
