Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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Smoking Candle

A plug dismantles a temper
unveils a pink bullet-hole
on the fore-head.

A butterfly flutters and then
sits on the lips, offers an apology
for the smile.

The water blooms in eyes
cascading to chest
for measuring the mounts.

Who mimics the fever
of a volcano, throwing burning
ash in the eyes of a sun?
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