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In Dustbath
Folder:
Satish Verma The freckles were
appearing on the face
of Venus―
Arms broken.
A man-eater was shot
dead, while feeding.
The reddened skin
invites a vespa. Sometimes
you love the stings.
You wait for
the sunsets, before the
Venus flytrap shuts.
Drifting on the
dust road, I start
searching my lost address.
How will you hear
my voice?
