On Sunday prayers, they stood at the door,
all too many at a stretch,
waiting to hear the church bell toll;
so deafening to the ear her modern electra,
communion with men of old
to my eyes so blind that day of unaltered eye,
a charioteer hath passed this way;
her novice feeling to fill my heart with love,
of full-arrayed ribbons against the bolted sky,
I could see e'ery fig leaf in autumn wind,
and a rainbow on top of the tree,
the stars ashore bear witness to thee,
that in secret influence comment
to my father beside,
a soldier's grave unknown,
still looking to the corner of street forty-seven,
soon as a host of crowd from out of nowhere,
too, but stampeded the throne,
of our Lord, The King...The King...!
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Tuesday, December 23,2014 4: 50: 16 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem