Nothing that by love-sick thought on thee,
can e'er stirr the mind,
that this bonanza of yore dream
still but of my adversary's part
to play a hunch for the parade;
of what I hath writ in nurslings of immortality!
too shall fade from off thy e'erliving memory,
beside the bed of oak in the late evening,
else thy most high deserts be my love no more:
while our little john upon the sand dunes,
not least to arise, arise in this waking hour
against e'ery flower upon a barren heath;
heaven-ward bent thy iron car at matilda's farm,
nor shall I move thee more to call upon thy aid
along the pavement of cow parsley,
that crow's quill under the Archangel's brow.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Saturday, December 05,2015 2: 30: 50 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem