Cruel heart! love ye not by Savannah's lake
her persistent cries,
a shrub of wrinkled lip in my spilt words
such darling buds of may,
too but stirrs the mind in half-measured looks from afar,
heavily weighed down by my bagpies this world
of my shipwrecked dreams in nurslings of immortality;
awakes me from slumbers deep in rosemary garden:
of fealty's Apollo at my door her stumbled feet,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown in thy graceful ease,
oft leaves me in dismay thy iron car at Matilda's farm
against e'ery flower upon a barren heath thy most high deserts,
besmeared with time in the late evening,
a table, a chair, a bed of crimson joy
hath brought a chest by the sea-ashore,
beside the oak, a vigilant observer's estimate too many in a row,
the boat is slowly drifting away from the sand dunes,
of fickle foe's fiddle, our little john of harplings,
plays a hunch for the parade under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Thursday, May 26,2016 12: 37: 17 PM
* There can be no better offense than to think of negligence as the only motive. Ruthless!