Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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A maverick―
neither tears, nor scabs
I wanted to cheat myself.

Confection may go awry.
I prepare the new text
of wearing the pain.

I want you to stay
beside me, when I am unseated―
holding the clouds.

Discarding golden viscera.
This was my last journey
for taking revenge.

Undulation over. There
will be a vertical
drop on the nails.

On the black stones a fig tree wavers.
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