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The Bell Tolls
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Satish Verma Standing at the edge
of soreness,
stopping by a waning moon.
It was a weird thing.
You forget your name.
I was the game,
you were the hunter.
Half on your lips,
half in my eyes.
A handsome tragedy
will always wait by.
Two randomly scorched
souls, light-years apart
want to meet in twilight
of the gods.
There was reluctance
to stand up to moon,
who had white heart.
I will ask you
to take a final dip.
