Satish Verma
Under The Cloud
The depression,
in purple moon,
scattering black magic.
The eatery, I ask, why were
you hungry?
The singsong tea pot smiles.
The theme of mist
valley, incites the palazzo;
and the riots begin.
A dark silhouette, looms─
against the falling star,
I start picking up the debris.
On the fringe of
economic boom, I put my
hands in the wronged shirt.
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