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When The Rains Stop
Folder:
Satish Verma Blast of horny
words comes from sideways.
It was your mind.
A hungry soul―
like a hawk, looks straight
in the eyes of a victim.
The bunch of clouds
make an areola around
your head. Were you crying?
The mushrooms grow
overnight on your lips.
At dawn, the steam
hurts my poems.
And I think, to
turn back to my chains,
to stitch again my gaze.
