77* Poem by Naveed Khalid

(A Tribute To Hamnet Shakespeare)

Long forgotten lines of my pulse through
unnerved blood in vein,
many a tale is weaved of the world;
around my head that mute song in time's cruel hand,
so old and withered his stressed out beat in dull rhyme,
oft by what you think goes blind through rose-coloured glasses,
of what to my mind still upon the page is printed, printed
before the pen hath writ thrice with holy dread:
the fate of those stars in my account,
of whom, they say, hath fled in old decrepit tongue,
I'll write them against the wall on high with pen-pricked angels,
beside the oak, the majestic sun at my door
opes a garden in the backyard of my garden where bluebells hang
by the windowsill of an old house; such darling insights
break the first light at dawn thy myrtle crown,
is robbed of me my rose-bed under the cow's shed,
so many scattered flowers are spread in vain,
pricked with a furr coat in the cellar-barn, santa's mini skirt
of a dragon skin at clover-beach unto my shipwrecked dreams;
that fair youth in whose tress of golden hair,
thy iron car of wild wagnor's wheel in rust upon the sand dunes.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Tuesday, December 03,2013 6: 56: 31 PM

*Rewritten on Thursday 23, October,2025.23: 56 pm