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Satish Verma After an aggressive
kiss of life, a very restless
soul, trapped in the stale body,
wants to escape.
In dead of night, it
rains inside the eyes, on paper
and in poems.
You trip when a
decapitated head of the
past wants to bite.
Not an anomaly, you
were wished in the wet prayers
of a kneeling goddess.
We do not reach
the question marks, and
answers are in our hands.
Do we see the silver
in dark clouds?
Who knows the unwritten?
