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God It Kills
Folder:
Satish Verma Get to take call,
I will follow myself― and
open the old wound.
Of conscience.
The veins of leaves will knit
the face of a brute.
Ready to violate
November. The dilemma in
waves of lake rises.
How to pick cotton
flowers to celebrate snowfall.
We have reached moon.
Is that you, I
ask my poem, can you maintain
the purity of dawn?
