Opening night's silk,
remembering you, under moon-
walking on wet grass.
You were not fake in
a crowd of naked fakirs,
taking bath in sun.
The truth must come out
to face the mother tongue,
when god was killed.
Where it hurts, the shoe's
nail. Prodigal son was blind.
Did not read the road.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 16th, 2019 20:55
- Category: Nature
- Views: 30
Offline)
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