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  • A Imperfect Poem
    Standing beside me to shout and say An?Your finger is an arrow your words my funeral songMade me your itching pad The crooked tree stands with pride, still good in produceNone says you’re imperfectThe unrhymed wind never knows perfection, soothes the soul alike,Whispers symphony of imperfect scale. Splattered rays decorate Read more
    17 December 2024 By Dr Manoj Kanth Sirra