Poetry

Satish Verma


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12 november 2022

Not Pure as Roses

My nascent distress flourishes
under the diktat of unknown. Can you
tell me your history of fall?

The questioner fails to
put up the right questions. You were
inquisitive, but I was not understood.

Why does the hate develop between
the words and the meanings? I suffer
when I am numb. You suffer to open your mouth.






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