My Soft Voices Poem by Satish Verma
My Soft Voices
A skirmish starts at lashes
of sun, squeezing the gist of prudence.
You whisper a shloka.
The dead won't see from
open eyes. The wisdom swells, when
war begins between doors.
You smell like white
roses. The dream of slant eyes
will pass through the sins.
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7/25/2025 6:02:53 PM # 1.0.0
