satishverma
The Half-Dead Moon
Category: /General/
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You cannot quit my life,
without blood on your hands cleaving
through my poems. Will you take off your skin?
Were your lips as true
as your eyes? As I know you O king,
you have punctuated my song.
Pulverised You said,
there was someone sending wind to
fire. I was burning in the salt lake.
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