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Reckless Winds
Folder:
Satish Verma Return to an old style.
I hold the breadth, crippled in
grip. No deterrence. I want your drink.
Let me become intro-
spective. I am god, creating moon’s
corona. Everyone looks schizophrenic.
Roses in summers were
sad. No color sticks. Only flowing
blood was red. Butterflies disappear.
