I can ne'er know by what cruel hand or eye,
what worst time of the year to that day of morning's pure serene,
I behold my love that grows to eternal bliss;
that of erased looks this world to my mind still
of another rent at midnight lease in waking hour,
too, but fades away in dismal shades of age-old grey
against that forfeited dark more bright to illumine
than what from a fumbled mouth hath spilled to becharm the skies,
alas, in waste of words some vulgar paper to rehearse,
all wrapped in shroud of a star a broken shaft of feathered mast at north,
e'ery flower upon a barren heath in my bed of crimson joy.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Sunday, November 16,2014 2: 13: 25 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem