Black, black is the print
on litmus paper,
that of a shadow
under the transparent sky,
has revealed in lightning, storm and rain;
Of what is colour blind,
will go to the mind
when it comes to think on thee,
for nothing is in vain,
not even that you least count for a thing:
This world of thine eye
be of one such look,
let alone if darkly lit,
the sun would illumine
all in heaven and earth.
Black Rose! the wild flower
at our common grave of stardust,
and in that reading room unfolds:
what you have never seen before:
the carpet, the curtain, the table, the bed,
The rocking chair but moves me more
than what you deny of a star,
behind the mirror of everything,
his intriguing looks of eternal sight.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Saturday, September 07,2013 4: 39: 23 PM