Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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Fury

While I limp,
a schizo runs parallel with the moon.

Climbs the hill

to sort out the night. Terror.
The shadows were fighting. The lost innocence.

Delta was forked, dividing the pain. Sensuous

bliss rising, falling.

Where will you go now? Billions of planets wait for your arrival. Einstein

was calling you again.
The shards of moon were waterborn

reflecting in your eyes.
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