Lo! how thy ablaz'd charm stood aghast
the door of hundred years from hence,
that in autumn thy burning tables turn
of hatred or desire e'ery graceful ease
thy love of this world but to thee suffice;
of what I lack in, much dearth of thy most high deserts
against my outcast state forlorn,
many hath stood and wept to prove thee virtuous
of a wrinkled lip in my spilt words:
that shows not half thy part ere thine unweird eyen,
of whom, they say, reigns o'er all else in a groping dark,
still on wings, on wings I let my muse fly, fly,
above the canvas of some untimed horse her arm,
elbow room, a bed, lamp dimly lit o'er the horizon
in deep azure of departed looks,
full glorious sun of our common affairs.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Thursday, December 03,2015 2: 53: 48 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem