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urdu poetry

this ancient silver bowl of mine
when, full of warm and eager love
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
when i was broke in london
up and down he goes
you are beautiful and faded
as a white candle
i burn no incense
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
blossoms of babies
star-dust and vaporous light
i hold your heart

 



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