Poetry

Satish Verma


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13 october 2019

Did Not We Cry?

Ash and smoke.
I am fever, not becoming
any sound.
 
Like a lichen, a mycorrhiza
on damp soil,
unfound by light.
 
Thriving in airless
dark. Will not see the cool―
moon of summer night.
 
There was no key
to find the invisible.
A random poem will see.
 
Your painted body
in blue scars, still
remembers the fallen roof.






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