Two seasons of eyes so blind that by equal right apart,
have by thee in love's sickness depart'd so;
but I whose golden dreams in autumn leaves
are still but shinning bright before the sun,
and her shadow upon some lone bark of a tree,
oft beguiles me by night when I my star
am looking through the skies of good old days,
that song of a nightingale in worn-out time
too, hath fled from off thy ancient lyre
e'ery skipped beat of my heart's untamed feeling;
whence secrets of remote visions unfold,
of haunt'd house in darksome world abroad:
the room, the chair, the table, the bed and I
nothing am more than what you think of love,
My mother! native nature's empty glass the wall on high,
her enchanting slogans of disparity to my shipwrecked dreams.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, November 04, 2013 6:21:00 PM