The sad account of love that to my mind still
in winter cold, of unsaid words,
a strained note that fell out of hand,
of unnerved blood in vein;
and of bewitching looks her reckoning days,
at break of day arise, all red-eyed sun
of our hopes and dreams in hurtlings of past woe,
against time's tickling toes
to debarr at heaven's gate, my bride,
full ripe gourd of hazel nuts in summer's prime!
I, too, can unfold from history's yellow pages,
a fig leaf of autumn upon e'ery golden bough,
made new that half-baked masonry's star-lit night;
else beneath the sheer taut surface
of vegetable plantations, a broccoli,
barefooted you tread the mundane shell
by the sea ashore;
where cowslip spreads her seraph wings
under the harvest moon, I plough! I plough!
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
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