Then, some do they taunt me with love-hired wit,
toiled by day's labour my pilgrimage to thee,
from off so remote a place to hide
the wayfarer's clime,
a telescope, a compass, a few scraps of paper,
still haunts my head at midnight lease,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
needest no soft murmurings in silent hours
of soliloquy,
of woe-begone days my shipwrecked dreams;
above the mundane in the late evening
e'ery flower upon a barren heath
against bright-lit mirror of thy most high deserts;
beside the oak of fealty's Apollo at my door,
this world of wrinkled lip in my spilt words,
cowslip her parted hair upon the sand dunes,
clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream,
hung aloft the ghastly night in autumn, our little john,
that day of unaltered eye in rosemary garden.
(C() Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Thursday, February 11,2016 4: 19: 13 PM
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