Speak not unto me of thy mind
that in fair form's graceful ease,
exponent of that bright-lit mirror
of thy most high deserts,
heaven-ward bent that bewailing night asleep,
I too hath stood and wept
against this world forlorn,
gone are the days of happy morn,
tinged with stars of old in a host of crowd:
besate upon the stone of Bohan
from another shore to arise,
of our unmet desires in timeless tide,
encompassed with thy dappled things,
thy gilded monument astounds,
twin draperies of her iris by the time count,
soon will go to sleep,
on wings, on wings that crow's quill
of lost memory to another's plight,
will ne'er find solace in thy presence alone.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Thursday, September 17,2015 2: 35: 22 PM