That poet was too much into his sun,
In his howl at sun’s flower as if it was
Very sun striking oiled ocean surface.

Do we touch the beauty of husband?
This poetess is too much into brevity.
I lose her story down a muted voice.

Some where in a real ravine is escape
Painted by cops and terrorists fleeing
From the high walls of smug prison.

I lose the story of escape from body.
Who escapes whom, as a sun stinks?
Too much into brevity we lose story.

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