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Replying to a comment on:
suppose (a warm sun) (Free verse) by richa A warm sun, the anarchy of bells
Had thrown us;
So used to we were,
The winter
The rain on the crow,
And the cock, turning
In wind,
Had defined us
And the stillness of leaf
We had plotted against
The before, an angle
Of incidence
It measured our hopes,
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