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©Suman Shukla

Sun scorched is this barren plain,

Hot air rises

And burns every soul,

A hell-fire burns in the midst of us-all,

Scalded, injured, in ignominy

All these creatures move,

Bent bodies, stooping heads

With contorted expressions

Is how they groove.

We while away our time

Twisting and turning in our own skins,

Molting it with uncertain whims,

Until that day when Eternal beauties like you descend.

That primordial light before the concept of time emerged

Had weaved but your dress,

Blackness of the times

Before that first light blazed trail

Adorns those wave like curls,

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