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Some Prelude
Folder:
Satish Verma There were, peels
of ripples. Between.
The tangled arguments. Then you
start reading in the bumps;
a cold blooded murder.
Of poems? Serrated, when
I lifted them from your bloody hands.
No miracle. The animal
survives, without water, air.
You come down the ramp
without shoes to reclaim
the heritage.
And that means, there had been
an attempt, to commit suicide!
Satish Verma
