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Eighty Summers

By Rounak Giri

Empty evening blending with the purple sky, they whisper affairs,

Vastness of truth painted across my lament,

The air, so timid and soft, she kisses my hand,

Paving cobbles for the inert pink to blush.

Amidst the peace demention ensues,

Of disputing voids and words where chaos rules,

I see myself sinking under eternity’s lush,

Whilst digging meaning and crucifying the bare trust.

Silent siren prevails- nothing but wails tear,

I see him yell, deaf, but wailing at the pier,

Desolated yet concord, calling for his serene lover,

And the air still blushing, amidst all the sear.

All love blemished, who said eyes don’t lie?

Embracing them as metaphors of forlorn existence,

Subjugating and smothering my cries, kissing my eyes,

Whispers to me spells, she forbids me to cry.

Colourful pandemonium cages the mirth,

Breaking away from delusion’s high,

Yet the sky preserves ardour, purple still,

Caresses, peers and longs for a goodbye.

Twenty summers of aggregated promises,

Seeping through the slim veins under,

Crestfallen? Yes, but vividly aroused,

Waiting sixty more before the ultimate drowse.

By Rounak Giri

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