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At The End Of Game
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Satish Verma Very grim. You
promote the copperheads.
Lakes go dry.
I cannot stop
thinking, watching incessant,
the rains.
Waters send― the
crimson clouds to hide the sun.
Now that ice melts.
Become genderless.
You are walking on a
sleeping volcano.
Where the three
rivers meet, I stand on the bank
to watch bipolarity.
We are not yet dead.
Some wherea flutey whistle calls.
Follow the flames.
