A Private Knee At My Door Poem by Naveed Khalid

What nature could e'er mar the distance of thy love
than to witness beauty in summer's prime,
less in vain words be worthy of thy perusal
that her muse still in argument with thee,
this world from off thy ancient lyre in slumbers deep
hath but a mirror to hide from eternals, all woe;
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
mother, ah, soon as I think thee better off mind:
the sun of our common affairs from yellow-pages of history,
unfolds e'ery flower upon a barren heath in my bed of crimson joy,
of blessings more in counting prayers to show thy pride,
away from high heavens my shipwrecked dreams;
not a hymn can afford my glorious days in the late evening,
the heart that fed in nurslings of immortality, my deeds to pry,
the imprint of yore eye no scope shall find against thy most high deserts,
beside the oak, that half-baked masonry's night,
of clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream;
our little john, plays a hunch for the parade under the hedgerow
of a cottage-tree, her princely steps by the sea-ashore.


(C) Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Friday, May 13,2016 3: 42: 30 PM