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By Samyasathi Mukherjee

The dim lit dawn,

again for a morn,

radiant in the

clouds of east.

The bowed down tip,

of the green lush leaf,

breaths all the warmth

from the dew mixed mist.

The squirrels’ nut

and the woodpeckers’ hut

stops taking their rest,

and adieu the moon

to come back soon

again from the Pacific’s chest.

By Samyasathi Mukherjee

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