Cold.. - Poem by archana talupuru
the dead ethnic beauty is what is seen
and bones is what will be seen
the currocive clouds die away with tears
silt and salt merge
the olives dead colour sinks
with a mixture of a neutral solution.
golden gracious is what we'll wish
dead is what we are....
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You