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Poetry || SubmissionsDurlabh SinghAsleepI fell asleepIn middle of the night Or perhaps it was a day Feigning the darkness. There was a beggar At my tapped door Begging for a silver spoon Or perhaps for a pot of gold. A limpid long life Like flow of a river Descending into the dust Perhaps in harassed fever. If I was asleep Who was the other I ? Cajoling, decreeing Perhaps a child with a dagger Or a painted being in swagger. Days come and go But the sun without a race Soulful of its luminosity In a jocund dark space. Durlabh Singh is based in London and has been published widely in over 250 publications. His latest book: He has also published at Ariga Today's Situation
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