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Mystery
Folder:
Satish Verma The fumbling picks up.
The sixth sense
was failing.
A mother weeps
for the unborn child.
You were still ogling the peaks.
Were you true to yourself
in the dark, when the
moon was away?
I had lost the burning
coals, after the
rains came.
The dark mine, where
they were shot, for
picking up the lightning.
