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A Spiritual Rage
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Satish Verma The neck pain was singled
out. Roll yourself down―
from the hills. The
figures were crying.
You cannot dismiss
the infamous past tense.
The butchered birthday―
of freedom of speech.
The underpaid stone cutters
of the quarry, and the
golddiggers crowding the street.
Whom will you give your hand?
In glass, the progeny-
grows, away from home,
from inheritance.
I stare in disbelief, unblinking.
Satish Verma
