Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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A Lone Journey

Invasion was thin
like a feather's fall
on the mirror.

Only bride will know,
the rose petals were
meant for unthinking.

Scattering rice
to dig out the tools
of prehistonic man.

The previous night
I taught myself
how not to peel the oranges―

with bare hands,
in terror, when there was
endless path to unknown.
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