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Now
(5-6-1935 / )

Now

Poem By Satish Verma

He, making his own cast. You knew it.
Unique mystique of transparency.
You could not touch him.

Walking ahead of the sun,
long shadow, sweating it out,
pungent odor.

Innocence hung from desiccated tongue,
he preserved original speech
before falling prey to polymorphism.

Certain amount of tears, some sadness
make life sweet for a while.
Phrases are not hurting now.

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