Satish Verma
Come Again
Intercepting the random
poems, pick not
the holy water, in your palm.
I cannot lift the words.
Dark bellies, in moon's
autumn, will play with flutes.
You will swoon on the
sight of blood at the hands.
It was not the first time, a
lamb in the midair―
falls on the golden spear of
new theme, to bluff the naiveness.
Somebody takes a turn, to
find the bell, which will not send
any sound, on the death of
the poppies.
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