Sometimes through the diagonals of the edges,
a whirling form moves, twists and turns.
In the depth of nights, I fathom the self
blinklessly staring at the marquee tracing
the present, past and the moment, brief.
And thus flees the time.
a whirling form moves, twists and turns.
In the depth of nights, I fathom the self
blinklessly staring at the marquee tracing
the present, past and the moment, brief.
And thus flees the time.
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