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Svetleena Choudhary

In his denial
I find reason.
That will
that burns,
So sparingly.
I still ask,
And beg.
Each time
Growing weaker,
Each thought
Growing bolder...
That, which I am so afraid of
Is mine.
To give,
To shed,
Even to gift,
To make me exult in
the pain of a yellowed soul,
the unrealized enormity of white dreams .

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