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  • Shubhshree mathur


They were plucked and thrown away

But they crept inside

Looked down upon in open

But have the richest places to hide

Under the silk mattress

Covered with precious scent

They roll away lazily

In the finest parchment

People judge them

the weeds

Pursing their lips

Then go back to their dens

To lick the smoke off

Their fingertips.

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