Nothing remains of what in mind's eye
through sickness of desire,
has long abandoned for sake of poetry,
his untaught feeling to account for love:
Father! that to this end brings forth
our woe-begott'n dream,
oft beguil'd by looks in the empty mirror,
turned his face upon the world, not yet in sight;
nor I e'er seek to write in thin air
of shadowy vision at his feet, children follow;
but he sits still unmoved, watching them from afar,
night and day, day and night,
unattend'd by waking hour,
his presence alone makes me think
I, too, am relic of a living dead
around this house of mortal clay.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
*Republished
Date Created: Tuesday, August 06,2013 4: 16: 15 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem