When touch'd by the choir of heaven, my heart beats,
And muses sing from the elysium of thy last abode,
A song of songs for one that goes missing in my rhymes;
That no time can tell by what lines so old, withered,
What season of the year in his breathless breath
The wind blows, a rustle in dry leaves I can hear;
But no more than that voice of airy nothing,
Unless more by love be mov'd his part'd lip,
Something to separate, all mascara from the wintry night,
Not knowing how my insert'd words break the rhythm,
How those skin-tight dreams of woolly bright are departed,
Packed in the bonanza of an oracle-eye, will never return.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2012.
All Rights Reserved.
*Republished
Date Created: Saturday, February 16,2013 2: 12: 10 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem