Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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After Rumi

A secret moon
climbs.
There was a sudden
drop of height.

All along you were
there, inside me―
to hold my tremors.

I will try to recall
a lost call from horizon.

The triangle breaks.
The born, an unborn,
and the maker perish.

Only the designer
will survive.
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