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Liquefied version of pain has started working.
Human material constructs a floating emotion at last.
One by one
I rediscover the children of sorrow
among the ruins of ancient prayers.
The fear lurks under the trees,
under the stones.
I can read it,
unwashed stillness of a revolution.
It was real yesterday,
but collapsed on the rim of today.
My wrinkled faith gets ready for a proliferation of rites.
The land suffers...
My solitude remains unmeasured.
In despair, I latch on to sounds of pursuing light.
Impatiently, the dialogues are thrown around.
The philosophy of confessional truth becomes very auspicious.
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