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Satish Verma Overdriving
the silence in zero light,
flickers of sickle moon were
fading.
There was a conflict between
reason and
conscience. My father was
smiling.
Where was the gold, he asked
walking with his wooden─
stick in jungle of tears?
I kept the door ajar.
A smoke engulfs my eyes.
Before he died, he took
a promise from me.
I would not be visible.
Satish Verma
