Thus, this world so off-hand to my sightless view,
of raptures wild in lurking limbo,
that in worn-out time to a close afraid;
all too weird in winter cold with what I least contend,
the skylark at heaven's gate sing in nurslings of immortality,
a most stunning reality with powerful surge of the mind:
along the spine of a book leaf in autumn wind with pen-pricked angels;
away from e'ery wanton look to a far-fetched sky forlorn,
of glimmering grace this embassage upon the strand of still waters,
that crow's quill needest no light at sunset of the evening sky.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, March 02,2015 8: 08: 01 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem