Poetry

Satish Verma


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14 january 2020

Standing In Fog

A diminutive moon
will ask about the infinity
of blackness, when I
was waiting in November night
of a toothed fall
in a missing success.
 
Ahead of time, you
punch the wailing trunk
of the fallen tree. I had the taste
of honey, but who am I,
a giver of anonymity?
 
Withering in a fire house
without door. I have come back
to know my ancestory. This
was my home once, in the
ancient history of man. This
was the gift, this was the dawn.






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