This that you know not in presence of the mind,
that in unaccounted love remains
but a phantom of chalice wings
to far-off places unknown;
hid away from out of sight,
I still am stranger to the soldier's grave,
where freshly sown buds of may,
oft I find in hurtlings of country rhymes,
against a pastoral background,
a village life of a beautiful lady,
too soon shall fade with every fading eye
under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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