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I Am Not Myself
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Satish Verma Moon down I will
give a putsch to forget
a fiercely contested
claim.
Silent defeats had
the deepest wounds.
Like miniature paintings
were framed in
dried tears.
Why the ethnic divide had
stolen the skin of the teeth?
In fragments, I was
collecting the gifts not
given to you.
O god, make an ordinary
will for me I don't
want to see you dead.
A trembling voice wakens the sun.
