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Comments about Pooja Mishra
half of calm you sense before turmoil,
Half of turmoil herself.
Part of healing of the scar,
Part of wound it was, herself.
slice of what they call is love,
Slice of departed pain herself.
Portion of glitter glow in dark,
Portion of drape over moon herself.
Fragment of fraction they devise,
More than complete individual herself.
two halves serve more than one.