Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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A Bitter Fruit

To undo, the rare
appearance of a god;
scouring the water, before the
sun, divides the land.

What was the worth
of a ritual, around the fallen virtues?
The salt lake threw up
the broken genes.

The swirling sand covers
the boat, stranded on the beach.
A tempest is waited upon. The
gestures carry a message.

No authority.
I do not want to corrupt myself.
There was a narrow path
leading to the pink eyes.
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