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The Golden Gate

Was it too late
to find out, who was
morally wrong?

It was an art of dying
for you.

Shapeless, a big pain
flourishes in my limbs,
but I remain too static
to locate my roots.

The bell will not ring today.
Somebody kills a story.
There was no hero.

Resting, my head on stones
I will bleed rest of life.

No cuts. No bruises appear.
Naked as an arrow,
a sharp gilded attack
opens the cage.
Satish written by

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