Bataclan Poem by Naveed Khalid

No, not least in seraph wings of gold
can e'er illumine at the windowsill,
of darkened days in dumb despair
the reality of this world forlorn,
awakes but a wonder in thine holy eyen;
away from this fedora of yore dream,
where I too hath stood and wept
of a hundred shadows by thy grove,
heaven-ward bent in rosemary garden;
I could hear a tapping noise o'er my head
amidst a few dry leaves of book in autumn,
a cushioned coffin beside the bed of oak,
squirrels make hoards in haystack of woods
against the harvest moon my shipwrecked dreams,
pebbles and stones in the ocean sink,
her clasped hands of blue-bells at my door,
oft steals looks from my bed of crimson joy
ere in rustle of the wind makes wither
e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
that day of departed looks be made new,
of golden tress her parted hair upon the sand dunes,
a soil from homeland in my country rhymes
across the horizon in deep azure
I still behold by love-sick thought on thee,
the Eagle on wings, on wings at sunset of the evening sky.

(C) Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Wednesday, November 18,2015 1: 35: 49 PM
Wednesday, November 18,2015 1: 42: 00 PM

* Inception of three more lines, and updated on Thursday, November 19,2015 2: 24: 21 PM