a poem by Naveed Khalid, Pakistan

Must I leave this post from off thy powerful surge
of the mind,
richly coloured silver grey angels
in chaos of the cosmos,
of what in reality of yore dappled things,
this world at midnight lease hides from eternals
e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
of wrinkled lip in my spilt words that man-in-the moon:
that tolls the bell at my door of rosemary garden,
beside the oak, my shipwrecked dreams in the late evening,
be my only woe under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree,
of clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream,
a vast stony arabia of thy most high deserts,
the wall on high holds me in ecstasy of pure heaven,
of what the star in secret influence comment
to our little john of harplings under the bolted sky
that crow on wings, on wings in thy graceful ease,
fell from myrtle in my bed of crimson joy,
awakes but a wonder in thine holy eyen, sweet maid,

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Wednesday, May 11, 2016 1:03:19 PM

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