Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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Fractured

Blunt and bold were
the wet spots.
You bleed like me.

The seizure takes hold
of millions thoughts.
My sins are walking with me.

No annihilation of
the flesh. I was meeting
the spirits.

The face becomes pure
gold, when you
start burning the issues.

The years had survived
in slumber.
Death will not come to the hanged man.
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