Must I of my darkened days to some rivulet blue,
Drown an eye that of erased looks to my mind still,
A foul fawning bay at my door, bewails the night;
Not least to account for love in the mellowing year of spring,
Of woe-begone all thoughts to a poor wretch like me,
That in whose country rhymes so sickening a desire in ill-omen,
Oft such rags of time make haste in my bed of crimson joy:
Adieu! adieu! I needest no soft murmurings in sweet-scented silence.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Tuesday, October 28,2014 11: 09: 18 AM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem