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urdu poetry

through the broad earth's aching breast
one sweetly solemn thought
we who stood
to come so soon to this imagined dark
this is the arsenal
softly now the light of day
what do i owe to you
stuff of the moon
i reside at table mountain
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
i burn no incense
i've won the race
master of human destinies am i
melancholy, blue it was

 



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