Oft that by love of old formed memory
has but beauty's look so fair,
that to my sightless view brings forth
nothing more than what I write,
of eyes so blind in darksome dungeon,
a desert rose, by the world of drifting dreams amiss;
I'll make some procession awake to thy call,
and by nights and days in worn-out time,
her light be spent in pure heaven:
thus, whether I see the picture or not,
what it matters, and who'll see
the mirror that is still in need of an eye.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
*Republished
Date Created on: Sunday, January 05,2014 3: 19: 18 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem