The Twisted Hands Poem by Satish Verma
The Twisted Hands
What I need now?
Except, the broken glass. The
love has spilled the venom.
You will not drink the
moon, conjured. The gold intervenes.
And counting of bricks begins.
What was the authentic
hate? Because the lips leave the prints
of a viper. The book starts burning.
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8/28/2026 11:36:31 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
