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A Storm's Evening

By Yash Raj Shukla

The window whizzes in front like a ghost,

As he stares at a "him" that the glasses enclose;

Trees swaying wherever the wind blows,

The low laid grasses- one's holding their own.

Dried up ink in a bottle- age old,

Presses blank pages indented by the past;

An impression is what remains after all,

Of all filled up sheets fluttering in cold.

His reflection cast on the glass ahead,

Holds the winds and storms and flurried rain;

And yet it has those empty streets,

Where no one now but dereliction streaks.

He that holds the pen is lost,

Empty as the pages on the table in front;

Hollow like the eyes that stare him back,

He's got no wits left to impart to the storm.

By Yash Raj Shukla

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