Shall I but make thee e'ery throbbing beat
of untamed heart and cold,
that becharms the skies to a close afraid;
so fairly lost sight of rose-coloured glasses,
I still hold dear to my shipwrecked dreams?
a night-long love of thy most high deserts;
which from off such departed looks
be made to wear out soon in counting prayers:
fills the page with much too revered thought
of thy presence alone at sunset of the evening sky,
I'll rest content be obliviion of what hath pass'd o'er
in a twilight dream against the harvest moon.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Saturday, November 14,2015 4: 17: 36 PM
Saturday, November 14,2015 4: 23: 25 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem