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Autodidact

Will not donate
my bloodstained shirt.
It divides the cuffs.

The alphabet turns
around to watch the fall
of syntax.

Everynight I wait
for the moon to rise
from the crescent of golden eyes?

for another encounter
with a god, who
would not listen to soliloquy

of a rich begger?
sitting in the ruins of a temple,
he built of dreams.
Satish written by

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