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Satish Verma Your feet had
turned stones. The return
of the gale will find―
blood marks.
Embalmed was your
spirit in my roses. The
heart of garden trembles.
A lone pain
flutters in exile. I will
not meet you at moon.
The greek tragedy repeats.
The spark was
caged. I was trying to
find shelter under bottlebrush
in howling rain.
I will not call a stop.
Still Reading Satish
Spirit elevating ~allets~