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RETURN OF THE POET
 
It is autumn
grapes are bleeding.


The orange color
seeps into your eyes.
Will you shut the green lids?

You,
start reading backward.
Atavistic instinct
to dig up the severed hands?

Your house,
died
in the flower bed.
Seeds were crying.

By satishverma

© 2002 satishverma (All rights reserved)

 

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