Poetry

Satish Verma


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14 october 2021

The Dead Don't Care

I grope, I fumble.
I do not seek
any death.
You will divide,
my body, my soul.

Concealing a double
of god, you disappear
in zero visibility.

The bullets,
the knife.
Will they break the pride
of defying the norms?

The nonviolence speaks
from podium.
Hate breeds hate.
Would you drop the weapons
for enemy?

A rose will say I don't know.






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