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Reena Prasad

Don’t Shoot

My thoughts fluttering in the breeze come to rest awhile upon your tree won't peck your ripe fruits nor drop any waste

Songs of the dead

songs of the dead
Their wise songs have gone, dashed against cliffs. Wiping off dewdrops from grass lips, the day stretches till its grayness splits. A bird sings from a branch. Both are plastic.